New School
by Blunz
Summary: *Young Mondler* This story is based on a dream I had which involves me knowing Monica and Chandler in real life and trying to get them together at our new boarding school. After waking up from the dream, I couldn't resist making this fanfiction.
1. Unscummy Mondler

_I finally begin a second story, and it is neither of the two that I have previously mentioned I would be writing. Sorry about that. I keep getting these ideas, yet I never put them in place. However, after having this dream, I realized I very badly wanted to share it with my fellow Friends fans._

_One thing that will be a little different about this story is that it will have a character outside of the characters from the show—me!_

_Yes, that's right: I will be a character. Because of this, the story is going to be in first-person, which I have never written in before. Also, I realized that my character needed a name. I didn't want to use my real name, so I decided on simply using my username on this site: Blunz._

_(Yes, spell-checker. "Blunz" is a word.)_

_I feel some background information is necessary to provide you readers with. To start off, I'm good friends with both Monica and Chandler. I also know Ross, Rachel, Phoebe, and Joey, though I'm not as close to them. We are all teenagers, me and Monica being sixteen, and Chandler being seventeen._

_I was accepted into a boarding school, and—due to my close friendship with the two—Monica and Chandler decided to come along. Monica was more resistant to the idea, though Chandler was able to convince her._

_As far as relationships go, none of the six are dating within the group, and I am not dating anyone either. As far as my character knows, Monica is still with her boyfriend Kip, in a long-distance relationship. Chandler is also single. Ross, Rachel, Phoebe, and Joey may or may not be in relationships as of now. I'm not even sure at this point whether or not any of them will actually be in this story._

_Now that I've used up nearly an entire page of this Word document, I'm going to actually get on with the story. Hope you guys enjoy!_

* * *

"If there really is a heaven out there, this is it," I say, marveling at the fancy golden gates before me that give the illusion of stretching up infinitely into the cloudless blue sky above. The "pearly gates" practically glow in the sunlight of this beautiful, glorious day.

"I think I'm already beginning to love this school," Chandler says. "It's just so pretty, I can't look away."

"I bet it's clean, too," Monica says, causing me and Chandler to laugh. I do agree with her, however. The school looks clean, and I like that. It had always been one of my greatest reasons for becoming such close friends with Monica: we both cared about cleanliness. I have yet to find somebody who bothers to keep their bedroom as clean as either me or Monica.

I have more than just _that_ in common with the girl, however. We both have an older brother as well. My brother is less than two years older than me, and Monica's—Ross—is just about a year older. I've suspected my mother favoring my brother, but after seeing how Mrs. Geller treats her children, I know I don't have it nearly as rough as poor Monica.

I could go on and on about similarities between us two, but that might just take all day. The only real difference I can think of is that she's a dog person, and I'm a cat person. And that she actually has a soul, unlike me. At least, that's what people tell me about having red hair and freckles. I don't really mind the comments, however.

I realize nobody has spoken in several seconds. "I sure hope so," I finally reply.

"Well, let's stop guessing and actually go inside to see for ourselves," Chandler suggests.

"Good call," I say. "Now, how the heck do we get into this place?" I look around until I notice a silver keypad on a near wall. "Ah. Fancy," I whisper.

"What is?" Monica asks.

Instead of answering, I reply by walking over to the keypad. I hear two sets of footsteps following close behind. Up close, I realize the keypad has a small screen at the top—making it look more like a calculator—that instructs me to press the Start button. I hear Chandler's voice. I don't bother turning around.

"Yes, 'fancy' indeed," he agrees.

I smile and press the button that reads "Start". The screen's text disappears and new text materializes into view. It tells me to enter my name. I punch in the letters and press the Continue button. Some security questions are asked, and I punch in the answers. The screen soon shows a confirmation message, and the gates slowly begin to move away from each other, swinging inward.

"And we're in," I say.

"You sound like we're breaking into a bank," Chandler jokes.

I roll my eyes. In all honesty, I do find Chandler funny. It's just that sometimes, his jokes start to get a little annoying. I mean, _seriously_? Can't they cease for just _five_ minutes?

The next ten or fifteen minutes go by in a bit of a blur. I'm too busy thinking about how great it's going to be to stay here. Taking a quick look around, I realize the school really _is_ clean, and I smile. Judging by Monica's expression, I can only guess she has just noticed the same thing.

A woman at the school's front desk tells us about how happy she is to see three new students and how it may be hard to adjust to boarding school life at first, but we'll get used to it in time. I'm really not paying all that much attention when I notice just how many trashcans are around just this one room. They must keep the place _spotless_!

I wonder if hanging out with Monica has caused my obsessive cleanliness to grow stronger. I don't really care. I'm proud of it, more than anything.

A bellhop-looking guy with short black hair and wearing a red uniform grabs our suitcases from us and sets them on a luggage cart. He leaves to bring them up to our dorm rooms.

"Once again," I say. "Fancy."

The woman continues to tell us that there is no school today and classes will start tomorrow, allowing us one day to walk around and get a feel for the school. I'm glad about that. I don't really mind school, though it's still nice to not have the first day of school be the first day _seeing_ the school. I hate getting lost and being late to class, even if it doesn't count against you during the first week or so.

The woman hands us each a keycard to our dorms, which she says will also unlock the front gates, which I have officially nicknamed the "Pearly Gates".

When the woman finishes, she dismisses us to do pretty much whatever we want. Monica, Chandler, and I agree to go up to our dorms first and unpack at least a little before exploring. Monica and I are sharing a dorm, and Chandler is either going to have some stranger be his roommate or be left on his own. They separate the girls from the boys.

We find an elevator and head up to the second floor where the dorms are. The girls' dorms are odd-numbered and on our left, whereas the boys' are even-numbered on our right. Organized—just the way I like it. The left wall is the stereotypical pink of girls, and the right is blue.

I use my keycard to open the pink door with blue lettering that reads the number 147. The three of us enter the dorm where we find a neat arrangement of our suitcases and bags on the floor near an orange couch. The apartment is fairly large. It has a small kitchen where I'm sure Monica will be spending a good amount of her time, a television across from the couch, and a coffee table directly in front of the couch. Both the left and right walls have a door, which presumably lead to the bedrooms.

"Your pick, Mon," I say. "Left or right? All bedrooms in this school are the same, but I figure since you're _Monica_, it still matters to you which side you're on."

Monica chuckled softly. "I'll take the right. Thanks for asking."

"No problem," I reply. "Well, let's get unpacking."

Chandler groaned. "_Great_."

"Don't complain," Monica demanded. "I'm not letting you ruin the fun for me."

"How in the world do you find unpacking _fun_?"

"Blunz, you tell him," Monica instructed.

"Sorry, but I'm kind of with _him_," I say. "I mean, I don't complain like an _eight-year-old_ about it, but I don't exactly find unpacking to be a _thrill_."

Monica scoffs in mock surprise. "How dare you abandon me? And for _Chandler_, of all people!" she teases lightheartedly.

"Feelin' the love," Chandler sarcastically remarks. "I'm gonna go unpack. Here: have a hat." He takes his deep purple baseball cap off his head and tosses it to me. I catch it and give him a confused look. "Don't question my sanity," he says before walking out.

"Well, that _wasn't_ a weird way to leave a room at _all_," I say sarcastically, studying the hat in my hands. I look up at Monica when she doesn't reply. She looks tired, which is understandable considering the long day we've had. "You okay?"

She doesn't reply, looking even more exhausted from my question. She finds a seat on the couch and gets herself into a half-sitting, half-lying position, with her head propped up against the orange arm.

"Maybe you should rest," I say. For whatever reason, I decide to place the hat on her head. It goes on crooked, making her look a little funny. I chuckle softly. She turns her head to look up at me, and my laughter immediately comes to a halt. Her face suddenly turns a shade redder, and she looks sadder than I've ever seen her, almost on the verge I tears. I've never seen Monica, in all the time that I've known her, come even close to crying. I quickly move to sit next to her. I practically rip the hat off her head and toss it to the side. "I guess that was a stupid idea. What's wrong?" Deep concern fills my voice.

She sighs, the official saddest sound I've ever heard in my life. "Just . . . tired," she tries.

"Okay," I say, considering her words. "Now, tell me the _real_ reason."

She sighs again and runs a hand through her currently short, dark hair. "Kip broke up with me."

My eyes widen in shock. I have never actually met Kip, but through Monica's stories, I thought the two were in a pretty strong relationship. I couldn't picture them ever breaking up. I wonder why Monica didn't tell me. "What? Why?" I spit out, too shocked to form sentences any longer than one word.

"When I told him I was going off to a boarding school, he wasn't exactly all that happy with the idea," Monica says. She looks as if she's using all her might to hold back from crying. I know that if I were in her situation, I would have lost that battle long before now. I place my hand on her shoulder comfortingly. "He—he thought I didn't want to be with him anymore, so he . . . He just broke up with me." Her voice cracks with emotion.

I finally manage to compose a full sentence. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I don't know," she says with a face inflamed in shame. "This is the first time since the breakup that you're not around Chandler."

"What does Chandler have to do with anything?"

She shrugs her shoulders, looking like she's struggling to get words out. "I guess I just didn't want him to know. He used to be good friends with Kip, you know."

"Yeah, I know." I give her a look of great concern. "I'm so sorry. You don't deserve this. I mean, seriously. Kip was . . ." I trail my voice off, wondering if I should continue. "Are you at that stage after the breakup yet where you want to hear bad things about your ex?"

She thinks for a minute, then nods. "Yeah."

My only judgment for thinking of Kip as a bad boyfriend is because he broke up with Monica, but I find it to be reason enough. "Good, because Kip was no good for you. He's just so . . . scummy."

"'Scummy'?" she questions.

"Yeah. Scummy." I smile. "And you don't deserve scummy. You deserve . . . Well, you deserve a boyfriend."

"I really do want a boyfriend," Monica says. "I mean, even scummy ol' Kip was nice to have because I was in a relationship. I really just want to be back in a relationship."

"_Believe_ _me_; I can relate," I say.

She goes silent for a minute, then grows a look of realization on her face. "You've _never_ had a boyfriend, have you?"

I shake my head. "Nope. Not one."

"How . . . ?" she says, sounding like there would be more to the sentence. Then, simply, "How?"

I shrug my shoulders and smile, trying to look casual about the touchy subject. "I don't know."

"Seriously, how could—," she begins.

I interrupt her, not wanting to talk about myself any further. "You know, I think somebody likes you."

Her eyes light up. "What? Who?" She sits up, looking like she seriously not only _wants_ to but _has_ to know.

I smirk. "I can't tell you."

"What? Tell me!" she demands.

"Nope," I say simply. "Can't. Sorry." I know my short, one-word sentences annoy her, so I purposely throw them in as much as I can.

She stands up from the couch and playfully smacks my arm. "Tell me! Tell me, you jerk!" She tries to sound angry, but the image doesn't quite pan out with the smile that has creased her lips and the anticipation in her eyes.

"Sorry. I really cannot tell you," I say, my smirk only growing wider and move devilish.

She picks the hat up off the floor, and before I can even see what she's doing I find the deep purple fabric covering my face. I have the sudden feeling of suffocation, and my eyes widen in fear. I know she was only fooling around, but I feel like I'm going to die if I don't get this thing off my face within the next second. I rip the hat off my face. In between staggered breaths, I yell, "It's Chandler! It's Chandler!"

I soon recover myself enough to see her shocked face. "Chandler? _Seriously_?" She looks at me as if I just grew a second head. "Did he _tell_ you or . . . ?" She lets her voice trail off a bit.

I rely back on my smirk and cross my arms. "No," I say. "Just a strong feeling."

"Just _how_ strong of a feeling is this supposed _'strong feeling'_?" she asks.

"Pretty strong," I say. "So, what do you think of _that_?"

"Well, frankly, I'm flattered," she admits.

"_And_?" I push.

She shrugs. "I don't know. I've never thought of Chandler that way."

Her words are convincing, but not convincing enough for me not to notice the hint of doubt in her eyes. "You sure about that?"

Monica looks down at the ground. She opens her mouth to speak, only to wind up closing it again. She awkwardly scratches the back of her neck.

I smile at her and the thought of my two closest friends getting together. Monica and Chandler. It did have a nice ring to it. Mondler. Yes, they would be "Mondler". It was a cute couple name for them.

Though I already knew Monica's answer, I also knew she would not admit to it for some time. I turn as if to leave and take a step toward the door leading back into the hallway. Before I leave, I twist my head around so that I'm looking at Monica.

"I'll give you some time to think about it," I say. "Talk to me when you're ready to admit the true answer." And with that, I turn on my heel and exit the dorm, as if I have somewhere to go.

* * *

_I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter. If you liked it, stay tuned for Chapter Two, which will hopefully be out shortly. And while you're at it, I would appreciate if you guys could check out my other Friends fanfiction: Transgendered Past._

_Disclaimer: It doesn't actually have any transgender people in it. Just read the description, and you'll understand why I named it that. ;)_


	2. Paranoid Imagination

_Thanks for the reviews! Reading them makes me unbelievably happy. I'm glad I can always count on you, Dizuz, to make sure my chapters aren't left without reviews. As for Sweet Sugarrrush, your review brought a huge smile to my face. I'm glad to see that even though I posted Chapter One quite a while ago, I was still able to get another review. Also, thanks for the review on my other story._

_Sorry I've been taking so long to update my stories. With the first few chapters of my first story, I was able to release two to four updates a week. Now, I'm lucky if I can get in one a week. I remember one long weekend when I had three consecutive updates in a row, one on each day. I would love it if I could update that quickly now. I started off with all these ideas. What I hadn't realized at the time, however, was that I would need to continuously keep coming up with ideas, or else I would run out._

_Anyway, without further ado, here is Chapter Two._

_Hey, that rhymed._

_That is exactly what I meant by "further ado". Shut up and get on with it already, Blunz!_

_Sorry you had to see that, guys. My apologies._

* * *

I decided as I walked to head over to Chandler's dorm. He probably needs help unpacking anyway. The man sucks at it! I would know because of the one time I had gone over to his house with Monica and her brother Ross, only to find his room a complete mess. I specifically remember seeing two large suitcases laid out on his carpet flooring with clothes spewing out of them across the floor and all over his room. I cringe now just at the memory of the scene.

Anyway, I'm really beginning to get off topic.

I walk up to his door—room number 152—to find it closed and locked. I knock twice on the blue wooden surface of the door, and it soon swings open revealing Chandler standing on the other side.

"Hey, Chan," I greet him.

"What's up?" he asks.

"Just wondering if you wanted help unpacking," I offer, secretly hoping he'll agree so I can talk to him about Monica.

He smiles. "Oh, sure. That'd be great." He is about to let me in when, suddenly, his happy expression turns to one of suspicion. "Wait. Why do you want to help me unpack if you don't even like unpacking _yourself_? There's no way you already have all your _own_ belongings unpacked. And if anyone would want to help me unpack, wouldn't it be _Monica_?"

"Yeah, yeah, details," I say dismissively. "I guess Monica just wanted to focus on unpacking all by herself. Apparently, I can't even unpack for _myself_ if I'm to be staying with her. Sure, we're going to be living in different bedrooms; but, according to _her_, if you live within a hundred feet of someone, you have the right to decide where all their stuff goes."

"I _see_," he said, still with a hint of suspicion in his tone. "Well, anyway, I _could_ use your help. As you know, I _suck_ at this unpacking crap, and, frankly, I do not enjoy it either."

"Perfect," I say quietly and push my way past him and into his dorm. I walk in to find a scene similar to one I was describing about how his bedroom had looked the one time I had gone over to his house. Except, this time, there are _three_ suitcases. And much more stuff. His once neatly-packed belongings are everywhere, all over the room. I sigh and run a frustrated hand through my copper-brown hair. "Chandler," I say with some hint of annoyance in my tone, "We have a _lot_ of work to do."

"You are _sadly_ correct in that statement," Chandler replied, hanging his head slightly in shame and disappointment.

I briefly let out an amused chuckle before turning serious again. "Well, let's get started then."

"Oh, _joy_," Chandler sarcastically remarks. "Where shall we start? With putting clothing into drawers, or with me putting a _bullet_ into my _brain_?"

"The _prior_, please," I request. "The latter comes tomorrow."

"I can hardly wait."

I decide that I'll be in charge of this activity since I obviously know much more about organization than Chandler. I instruct him to pick his clothes up off the floor and begin folding them—_neatly!_

"Okay, _Mom_," he muses and does as told.

Working together, we really begin to make quick progress with the unpacking. After only five minutes of working, we already have almost half of Chandler's clothes folded, which I begin putting away while he continues folding. I decide that now is my chance, the best opportunity, and I should take it.

"So . . . ," I begin, not knowing what to say. Why did I even open my mouth without preparing words first? I try again. "So, Chandler." This gets his attention. He halts his folding and looks up in my direction.

"Yeah?"

"You—you're single, right?" I ask awkwardly.

"Um . . . yeah," he answers. "Why do you ask?"

I realize suddenly from the look he's giving me that he must think I'm about to ask him out or something. Or maybe I'm just being paranoid. God, I hope so. It's not that I have anything _against_ Chandler. It's just that . . . Well, I would never _date_ the guy. There's nothing _wrong_ with him; I just don't see him that way. Especially not now or lately. No, I can't even _picture_ it. He should be with Monica. I know I've only held that opinion for the past week or so, but I hold it strongly. I swear, those kids belong together. The whole idea of them together clicked in my brain about a week ago. Maybe two—I can't remember. Just one comment from Chandler—something about him finding her attractive; he had been defending her after some guy had stated otherwise—was enough to spark the concept of Monica and Chandler. The concept of Mondler.

"No reason," I say quickly once I realize I haven't spoken in several long seconds. "Well, I—I mean, there _is_ a reason," I promptly fix myself. "You see . . ." Where do I even plan to go with this? What am I supposed to say? '_Hey, Chandler: you're single; Monica's single. You should hook up.' _That wouldn't exactly work out too well, especially since Chandler still thinks she's with scummy ol' Kip. And it's not in my place as her friend to tell him they broke up.

Crap. What did I get myself _into_?

"Actually, on the flip side, no reason."

'_On the flip side'?_ Since when do I say expressions like _that_? I don't even think I used it right.

I feel a trickle of sweat drip from my forehead. Even my palms moisten up. I wipe my hands on my pants to try to dry them, but that only makes them sweat more. Or maybe I'm just imagining it. Yeah, I'm probably just imagining it. I really hope I'm just imagining it.

Jeez. Even my _thoughts_ sound nervous and shaky.

"You sure about that?" he asks.

"Very sure," I reply, half a second quicker than I should have, almost cutting him off mid-sentence. I should have just waited—

No, no, no. He didn't notice how fast I replied. I'm just being paranoid. Why am I being so paranoid?

I really don't want to mess this up for Monica. I can't have Chandler thinking I like him. What if he thinks I like him, and then he starts liking me? No, that would never happen. But _still_, we don't want to take any chances, now, _do we_?

You know, I've never had to _worry_ about guys liking me before. It's never exactly been a _problem_. In fact, quite the opposite had more of a tendency to be on my mind. Not that this is about _me_ right now. No, this is about Monica. Monica and Chandler.

"Really?" he questions. "Because, all the while you're saying 'no reason', I'm just looking into your eyes, and you know what I see in there?" I stay silent, hoping the question was rhetorical and he doesn't actually expect me to _answer_. "_Reason_," he says quietly with a definite smirk.

"No, no reason," I say quickly. "Maybe I should be going. You seem fine unpacking by yourself. I guess I was wrong about you. You're really good at this," I say, patting him twice on the arm. I turn to leave. "Bye," I yell behind me as I speed-walk toward the door. Before I even _half_ the short distance, however, I feel a soft grip land on my arm from behind. I turn around out of pure instinct. No surprise, it's Chandler.

"You seem . . . nervous." Wow. _Someone_ catches on fast. "Is something bothering you?"

"Nope, nothing; I've gotta go, see you later!" I speak so fast, my sentences run together with barely any pause in between. I try to run out of the room, but his hold on my arm is persistent and, if anything, only growing stronger.

"Wait!" he calls out. Then, in a calmer voice, once he's sure I'm not going to try to burst out of his dorm again, "What's wrong? And don't say 'nothing' because I know it's _something_."

I try to piece together words to form my next sentence, but I can't seem to find any words that can finish the puzzle of whatever it is that I want to say. But I need to say _something_. I rely back on a previously used statement when I finally give up on coming up with something new. "I—I think someone likes you." Well, at least I said _something_.

His eyes widen in shock, and they carry a glint of glee. "Who?" he asked with strong anticipation in his voice, sounding like he must know, for his life depends on it.

I get a strong sense of déjà vu, and for once I know where it originates.

"S—someone," I stutter. Why am I stuttering so much? I really need to calm down. I'm probably creeping him out with how awkward I'm acting. "Not _me_, just to make that clear." Once again, paranoia settles in. Just by saying that it's not me, I feel like I only caused him to more strongly believe that it _is_ me—that I have a crush on him. And I don't. That's the annoying part. I can talk to any guy I like perfectly fine. Well, maybe not _perfectly_ fine, but I definitely don't act like _this_. Why is it that when I _finally_ find a guy I just want to be friends with, that's when I get all . . . twitchy?

Fortunately, he finds amusement in my twitchiness and chuckles. "I wasn't exactly thinking it was _you_, but whatever." He crosses his arms across his chest. "So, who is it, then?"

"It's, um . . ." I can't say Monica. Not only would that be wrong as a friend, but I also don't even know for _sure_ if she likes Chandler. Not that I was all that sure when I told her I thought _Chandler_ liked _her_, but that was different. I was trying to cheer her up. Not trying desperately to think of any possible response to a question induced by my own stupidity and failure at basic conversation. "I can't say."

Chandler's face drops in disappointment. "Then why did you even bring it up?"

"I . . . I _don't_ know," I tell him honestly, once again not knowing what else to say.

"Do you ever _plan_ to tell me who it is who's crushing on the Chan Chan Man?" he questions, and I can't help but laugh.

"One: please don't ever call yourself that again. Two: I don't know for _sure_ if she likes you. And Three—"

"Yes! It's a _she_!" he interrupts. "I really shouldn't be so excited about that fact, should I?"

"No, you should not," I say.

"Well, anyway, back to my earlier question," Chandler redirects us. "Do you ever plan on telling me?"

I glance over at the door, deciding what to reply. "Well, _first_, I want to find out if she actually _does_ like you." I take a step closer to the door. "I'll be right back." Before Chandler can say another word, I'm out the door in a flash, heading back over to my dorm where I'm sure Monica is still unpacking.

I'm beginning to get the feeling that I'm going to be doing a lot of this running back and forth stuff. I let out a groan.

This is going to be a _long_ night.

* * *

_Well, I hope you guys at least mildly enjoyed the least eventful chapter of any story ever to exist in the real world ever. That's right: I said "ever" twice!_

_I'm also a bit disappointed by how much shorter this chapter is than the first, but I sure did set the bar high with my near three thousand words included in the first chapter._

_On a final note: just in case I didn't make it clear enough in the third-to-last sentence of the chapter, there will be a lot of running back and forth between the two dorms for probably at least another chapter or two, maybe more. Unless if I think of some crazy plot-twist, but that most likely will not happen. Sorry to keep Mondler separated like this, but I will tell you that I do already have planned how I'm going to get them together, so just hang in there. ;)_


	3. Metaphorical Bicycle

_Thanks for the reviews, guys!_

_Not to sound creepy or anything, but I seriously love you guys. Seriously._

_**Dizuz:**__ Your review gave me a laugh. Thanks for that. :)_

_**Sweet Sugarrrush:**__ I'm glad to see you can relate to the whole "running out of ideas thing". Sometimes, I feel like I'm alone in the universe. And then I talk to you. XD_

_Now, I have some serious apologies to make. Two months ago, I had decided to take a break from my story-writing to clear my mind. Two months ago. Two months ago today was the last time I updated this story. That breaks my heart. This update is long overdue. That was no break. That was me giving up and lying to myself. I kept telling myself that I would continue writing any day now, any week now. Eventually, it became flat-out ridiculous._

_But I'm back._

_There's still one problem, however. I had enough ideas to write this one chapter, but I'm not sure exactly what will happen in the next. Hopefully, as I write, something will come to mind. At least a little hint of inspiration would be nice._

_Also, in case anyone was wondering, I will not be continuing my other two in-progress stories just yet. I don't want to force myself to write them when I have no idea where I'm going with them. After the wait I've been giving you guys, I should at least try to make the updates somewhat good._

_Anyway, onto the story. Enjoy, guys!_

* * *

As I enter my dorm, I see that Monica has not wasted the time I was gone and is unpacking, as I had anticipated. It's kind of funny with Monica. She could watch her own brother get shot, and her first thought would be: _"Great. Now I have to clean up that mess."_ Not until all the blood is cleaned off of her oh-so-perfect carpet would she finally react to her loss. She's demonstrating my point so perfectly right now. Despite how much must be on her mind at the moment, she still focuses on the task at hand: unpacking.

"Hey, Mon," I call into the dorm as I finally step inside. She turns to face me and frowns slightly.

"Oh. Hey." She quickly turns around and resumes her work. "You weren't gone nearly long enough," she says with her back facing me.

"Jeez, I'm sorry," I say, slightly insulted.

"I didn't mean it like that." Monica turns back around so she is facing me, and it feels more like a real conversation that way. "I just mean . . . I still haven't thought about it enough."

I don't have to question what _"it"_ is. I already know. "Well, maybe you should take a break from . . ." I let my words trail off when I receive an angry glare from Monica.

"This is how I concentrate," she says with some frustration. "Cleaning, organizing, _unpacking_: they help me think."

I nod in understanding. "In that case, what _have_ you been thinking?" I push.

Monica lets out a shaky sigh. I cringe, fearing what she has to say. But then she smiles slightly, and I relax. "I think . . . I think I like him."

My eyes light up, and I give my friend a huge, goofy grin. "Really?" I ask in amazement. I'm practically shaking, I'm so happy! It's almost kind of pathetic how happy I am for them. I don't have any romantic life of my own, so I can only get enjoyment out of seeing the relationships of _others_ develop.

"Yeah, but . . . ," Monica adds, and I'm back to cringing.

"_'But'_?" I ask sadly. "Why does there have to be a _'but'_?"

Another sigh from Monica. "Look. I just got out of a relationship. I'm not ready for a new one just yet. I would be fully willing to go out with Chandler otherwise."

I close my eyes in disappointment, though I nod. "Okay. I get it." I open my eyes. "I'll be right back." Time to head back to Chandler's.

"Where are you going?" Monica asks, though I suspect she already knows the answer.

I shake my head, for some reason not wanting to tell her. "Nowhere." Without another word—and without waiting for another word from Monica—I back toward the door and open it. Stepping out of the dorm, I turn around. I nearly jump ten feet at what I see.

"_Chandler?_" I shout in surprise, my heart racing. I feel my heartbeat slow after a moment, and I calm my words. "I—I mean: Hi, Chandler. What's up?" I immediately regret the nervous glance I take at the door behind me. I close it to make it look as if _that_ were my reason for glancing at it.

"I was just wondering where the hell you headed off to when you ran off," he replied with a confused look on his face. "But two steps out of my dorm, I see you leaving your _own_. What are you doing here? I figured you were headed off to talk to the girl with the possible crush on me." I stay dead silent, my bank of words and excuses officially emptied out. "I mean," he continues, sensing that I don't plan to reply any time soon. "The only girl here is _you_. And Monica, of course." And then it hits him. His blue eyes widen and bulge out of his face. I don't think I've ever seen someone look so shocked before in my life. "Oh, my _God!_"

I back up against the pink door and throw my hands onto my face, as if I were trying to hide from him. As if _that_ would turn back time.

"Oh, my God. Oh, my _God!_" he repeats. "_Monica_ . . . is the girl?"

I shush him. I speak in a low, but harsh whisper. "Chandler, Monica is in there right now. If we're going to have _this_ conversation, it better be in your dorm or outside or anywhere other than _right here_."

He nods and turns to head back to his dorm. I follow close behind. When we're inside, I close and lock the door. Can't risk someone barging in on us, can we? I turn on my heel to find Chandler waiting with an impatient look on his face.

I sigh. "Yes, it's Monica," I say simply, hanging my head slightly.

"I swear to God, if I find out you're just messing with me or something, I will _kill_ you," Chandler says viciously.

I shake my head. "No jokes here. She said she may like you."

Chandler cocked an eyebrow. "_'May'_?"

Here comes the part I was dreading having to tell him. "She and Kip just broke up and—"

"Wait, hold the phone," Chandler interrupts. "With all the confusion and chaos, I completely forgot about Kip. When did they break up?"

I shrug. "No idea. But she just isn't ready for a new relationship."

Chandler's expression drops. "But she likes me?" He sounds like a disappointed toddler. His mommy said no to the new bike, but he's still trying for a new basket.

If that makes any sense. No, it doesn't. It made no sense to me, so why should it make sense to anybody else?

Well, enough about metaphorical bicycles. Back to reality here.

I nod. "I'm pretty sure. She hasn't _fully_ admitted it yet, but I can just tell." Enjoy your basket, Chandler. I smile. Maybe soon, Mommy will let him get the whole bike.

I have no idea what I'm talking about.

* * *

_I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter._

_I know this chapter was much shorter than the previous two, but I realized that super short chapters are much easier to write, and most of my struggle to write originated in these chapter-length minimums and maximums I had set for myself. I'm sorry that the chapter wasn't too eventful, though._

_Speaking of apologies: Again, I'm sorry for the long break. I hope I don't take nearly as long to update ever again. I certainly don't plan to. ;)_


	4. Central Perk

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_You guys make me glad I decided to continue this._

_I've decided that Monica and Chandler don't know Rachel, Phoebe, or Joey in this fanfiction as of yet. And they all will appear at some point or another over the course of the story. Apparently, my dream didn't specify this aspect of the plot._

* * *

"Does Monica know you've been talking to me about all this?" Chandler asks.

I shake my head. "As far I know, she doesn't. But she may be a bit suspicious of why I keep leaving, and only for very short increments of time." Chandler rolls his eyes at my wording. I sometimes tend to fancy-up what could very easily be simple sentences originally.

"So, what do we do now?" Chandler asks. "Just pretend we haven't been having any of these conversations and continue on with our lives?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe that's all we _can_ do." It's kind of sad. Monica probably likes Chandler, and I can't think of any reason he wouldn't like her back, yet they can't get together. What's with all these stupid rules when it comes to relationships where you have to wait between the time of getting out of one and getting into a new one? Single life is so much simpler.

Chandler looks down at the ground sadly. He mirrors the shrug I gave him earlier. "You're probably right." A light rumbling sound emits itself from Chandler's stomach. His eyebrows shoot up. "Angry stomach," he mutters. Then, to me, he asks, "Wanna get some food?"

"Sure. Should I . . ." I hesitate before continuing. "Should I invite Monica?"

Chandler tries to look casual about the idea, but I can tell there's some awkwardness there. "Yeah, sure. Why _wouldn't_ we bring Monica along? We eat practically every meal together."

I nod and turn to leave. I walk to the door, but just as I'm about to open it, there's a knock coming from the other side. My eyes widen. I steal a glance back at Chandler—who just gives a shrug in reply—before answering the door.

"H—hi, Monica," I greet her in a shaky voice. "I bet you're wondering what I'm doing here."

"Kinda," Monica replies. "Though, I may have _some_ idea." She's hiding it behind a smile, but I can see the anger in her eyes. I wonder if Chandler can see it, too.

"Yeah, um, well . . ." I cough, trying to think up an excuse. "I was just, you know, I was helping Chandler unpack, of course." _Nice save, moron_, I think. "'Cause, as you probably know, he just . . . he just _sucks_ at this stuff."

Monica nods slowly. "You _do_ realize that you have your _own_ stuff to unpack, though, right?" She shoots me a cold glare. I knew it would be wrong of me to tell Chandler about whatever Monica possibly feels for him. I just couldn't help it! I wish Monica could understand that.

"Right," I reply. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have abandoned you with my stuff still packed." I pause, trying to think of what to say next. After a moment, I continue. "But, you know, I think I need a break of all this unpacking business. It sure is tiring. And you know what else? It's made me pretty hungry." As if on cue, Chandler's stomach growls again. "I guess I'm not the only one." I chuckle nervously. Maybe I'm just imagining it, but I swear the anger in Monica's eyes only grows at my awkward laughter. "Um, so, anyway . . . Wanna go get a bite to eat or . . . something?" I swallow on nothing in an unsuccessful attempt at clearing the lump in my throat.

There's no way Chandler sees the anger that I see radiating from Monica's glare. She's covering it up so sneakily with a huge smile, and only I can see past the barrier. It's almost as if I have x-ray vision. Or maybe something a little less insane-sounding.

"Sure. How 'bout we head to that little café-like place we passed on our way here," Monica suggests, her smiling growing impossibly broader with every word. It's the creepiest thing I've ever seen. A furious woman with a smile that grows with each passing second. A chill runs down my spine. "We can leave in, let's say, fifteen minutes?"

Chandler cocks an eyebrow. "Why?"

"You know, to get ready," Monica replies.

"To go to some café?" Chandler shakes his head and shrugs. "Women will be women."

"Yes, we will," Monica agrees. She grabs my arm suddenly. "Come on. Let's go be women back at our dorm."

There's something terrifying about that statement, but I follow reluctantly. At least I may get a chance to explain things once Chandler isn't with us. Once we're back in our own dorm, Monica slams the door shut behind us. She turns sharply to face me, wearing a cold glare. Her harsh words come out in whispered shouts. That's pretty contradictory. What I mean by that is she speaks quietly but furiously. She doesn't need a whole lot of sound to make her anger clear.

"What the _hell_ was that?"

"Let me explain," I practically beg. "I swear to God, I didn't tell him. He was there in the hall when I left our dorm. He figured it out on his own."

Monica crosses her arms, only highlighting her anger even more. "Since when is Chandler smart enough to see someone leaving a dorm and immediately know that someone else likes him?"

I cringe. "Okay, so I told him a little bit."

"How much?" Monica asks through gritted teeth.

"I just told him that _someone_ may like him, so when he saw me leaving our dorm, he figured out that it was you." I pause, contemplating asking the question that's on my mind. "You _do_ like him, don't you?" I regret asking it as soon as it's out of my mouth. This is definitely the _wrong_ time to be asking stupid questions like that.

Monica sighs heavily. "Okay, I guess that's not as bad as what I thought you had told him," she says, ignoring my question. I wonder if she does so on purpose. "Sorry for flipping out."

"No problem. Sorry for letting Chandler find out," I apologize. A heavy silence follows. I eventually cut into the silence. "I really _am_ hungry, you know."

Monica nods. "Okay, let's get some food. What was that café place called again?"

I think for a minute before giving up. "No idea. I'm sure I'll recognize it when I see it."

I was right in that statement. When we find ourselves in front of the coffeehouse known as Central Perk, I hate myself for forgetting the clever name. Inside, we see that the place looks very homey and a little bit like a living room. It's pretty nice. I have a feeling we'll be coming here a lot after school. I can almost see myself sitting on that big orange couch, working on homework on the coffee table in front of it. Or maybe studying or reading with some tasty little treat by my side. In this moment, I really wish I liked coffee. Maybe it's a taste I can acquire to. Well, nothing can stop me from trying.

Monica, Chandler, and I plop ourselves down on that very orange couch I was just daydreaming about as a waitress who looks to be around sixteen or seventeen with coppery blonde hair walks over to us. She takes our order before walking back over to the counter to get our food. It isn't long until she's back with our pastries and coffee. I'm going to drink this coffee. I'm going to drink coffee every day that we come here—which will hopefully be often—until I love it.

I sip the coffee and almost spit the brown liquid right back into the cup. I seriously do _not_ like this stuff.

_Yet_, I tell myself. _I don't like it yet._

That's when I notice Monica and the waitress girl talking. She's still here? Doesn't she have other people to serve? I shrug to myself and decide to listen to what they're saying.

"We're staying at this boarding school not far from here," I hear Monica say.

"Oh, that's cool," Waitress Girl replies. "I wish I could go to a boarding school. My family can drive me absolutely insane sometimes."

"Tell me about it," Monica groans, then laughs. "Well, nice to meet you, Rachel." Ah. So, her name is Rachel. This Rachel girl better not be taking my role as the best friend. If so, I may just have to hunt her down and kick her ass. "Hopefully, we'll be back here sometime soon, and we can talk again." I sigh inwardly. Yup, I'm being replaced. Or maybe I'm just being paranoid. Probably the latter. I tend to be paranoid a lot more than I tend to be replaced.

Rachel nods in agreement. "I sure hope so. See you around, Monica." She smiles sweetly before getting back to work waiting on tables.

The three of us stand up, now done with our food, and head for the door. Monica and Rachel wave goodbye as we exit. Once we're outside, Chandler speaks up.

"Looks like somebody found a little friend," he teases gently.

Monica rolls her eyes. "What? I can't have _other_ friends?"

I shake my head. "Nope. Come on. Aren't a girl-friend and a boy-friend good enough for you?" Both Monica's and Chandler's eyes widen simultaneously, and I realize what I've said. "I mean, not a boyfriend. It's . . . it's hyphenated. 'Boy' hyphen 'friend'. Not boyfriend. Boy"—I pause for emphasis—"friend."

"Okay, I think it's about time we leave," Chandler says quickly.

"Good idea," Monica adds. Sometimes, I can't believe myself. How do I always manage to screw everything up? Just when we're having fun and joking around, I go and say something stupid.

The walk back to the school was a painfully quiet one. It's not late yet, but we're all exhausted and have decided to crash for the night. I'm perfectly fine with the idea.

As my warm blanket envelopes me and I fall into the black abyss of sleep, I can only wish I'll wake up tomorrow morning to see that today was just one big, bad dream.

* * *

_I hope you guys enjoyed!_

_There will be more of Rachel in the future, in case anybody was wondering. ;)_


	5. Loony Hypocrite

_Thank you guys for the reviews! I love them dearly and cherish each one creepily._

_**Dizuz:**__ I know what you mean. It feels like it's been a lifetime since I've written for this story._

* * *

We woke up earlier today than yesterday. School starts today. We're all getting ready now. I've always found it funny with the first day of school. I'm always excited for it and dreading it at the same time. On the one hand, I love getting to meet new people and start up learning again. On the other hand, however, I hate it. I don't know why. I have reasons to like it, but I just _cannot_ explain why I hate it so much. The first day of school, I almost never even get any work. It's just a day to get to meet all your teachers and classmates and whatnot.

But I hate it.

But . . . I love it. I'm such a weirdo.

. . .

We're now in history class—which the three of us share—and the teacher has told us that we're allowed to chat with the other students and get to know them. What a coincidence it is that the one class the three of us have together is also the class that the teacher is telling us to meet new people. But anything sounds better than doing schoolwork at the moment. Not that I really mind the work all that much. I'm just a bit tired and don't feel like working right now. The thing is, however, I don't really feel like chatting either.

When I look to my left—where Chandler is sitting—I notice him and Monica talking with some guy. The guy has longish jet-black hair and is wearing a white t-shirt with a black leather jacket over it. He also has on dark blue jeans. I instantly get an uneasy feeling about this guy. What look is he even _going_ for? What, is he trying to look cool or something? Because I'm not seeing it.

What's with my two best friends finding new friends lately? Is it this whole "new school" thing or what? Is _my_ friendship not enough for them?

I force myself to calm my nerves. I'm panicking again. There's no way I could ever lose Monica and Chandler's friendship. We're a group, inseparable . . . right?

I sigh. May as well get to know the guy who's stealing my friends away from me. I scoot my chair closer to their table and introduce myself.

"Nice to meet you," the friend-stealer greets me. "My name is Joey."

I mumble a "Nice to meet you" in an attempt to be polite, but I think he senses that something is wrong. I force a smile and see him relax. "So, Joey," I begin, easing in some slight bitterness that only Chandler and Monica should be able to pick up. "How do you do, school-wise?"

He seems confused by the question but answers anyway. "Honestly, not so good." Then, he smiles. "But it doesn't really matter. I don't need to try in school because I'm gonna be an actor when I grow up, and actors don't need to be smart."

"An actor, huh?" What makes this kid think he can just _become_ an actor? Don't you need looks to be an actor? Okay, he's got looks. If he would just cut his hair and change his clothes . . .

I don't know. Maybe some girls like that bad-boy look. I, frankly, don't understand the appeal. With just a couple sentences out of him, I can already tell he's probably not all that bright. Though, he _does_ seem kind of nice. Maybe I shouldn't be so quick to judge. I just hate seeing Monica and Chandler talking to other people. I know it sounds ridiculous, but their friendship is the best thing in my life, and I'm terrified of losing it. It's not like I _actually_ believe that if Joey or Rachel or whoever becomes friends with them, they'll instantly exclude me from the group. It's more of an irrational fear.

. . .

My supposed "irrational" fear no longer seems quite so irrational. Chandler has taken quite a liking to this Joey guy. He even invited the kid to come with us to Central Perk after school. That's where we are now. Chandler, Monica, and Joey are sitting on the orange sofa together, with me way over here in a single-person chair nearby. They're excluding me already. I thought it would at least be a slow process.

Oh, great. No surprise who our waitress is. Rachel's walking toward us right this moment.

"Hey, Mon," she greets.

Wait, wait, wait. Who gave Rachel permission to call her "Mon"? It's "Monica" until further notice, Waitress Girl. I've known Monica for years. _I_ get to call her "Mon".

This is just plain ridiculous. My two best friends are mere feet away from me, chatting and enjoying their coffee and treats and whatnot, and they have no idea that I'm over here fuming with anger. But I perk up very suddenly when I notice Joey making eyes at Waitress Girl. Oh, this is perfect! Maybe Rachel and Joey could get together and leave the remaining three of us alone.

I really _am_ insane, aren't I? No, I can't be. Insane people don't _know_ they're insane.

Now, Monica is introducing Joey to Waitress Girl. Once again, I wonder why Waitress Girl isn't waiting on any of the other customers. You would think her boss would at least come over and yell at her. Maybe her boss is madly in love with her or something crazy like that. I laugh inwardly at the absurd thought.

Out of nowhere, a blonde girl our age appears and taps Rachel on the shoulder. Waitress Girl turns around and says something to Blondie. After a quick—and quiet—conversation, Rachel turns back to Monica, Chandler, Joey, and me.

"Sorry, guys," she apologizes. "I'll be right back." She and Blondie walk over to the large window—the one with Central Perk's logo—to the right of the entrance. That's when I notice the microphone and guitar. Rachel leans to speak into the microphone. "Central Perk is proud to present Miss Phoebe Buffay." She stands back up straight and walks over to another table to get their order—finally!

Blondie—err, Phoebe—picks up the guitar from the floor next to the microphone and positions it on herself. She smiles at her audience—although, I'm about the only one paying any attention to her. Rachel is taking orders; Monica, Chandler, and Joey are chatting—once again; all the other customers are too engrossed in their coffees and pastries. But I'm here, focusing all attention on this girl. She doesn't look like a normal guitar-player. And not just because of her young age. Her clothing is dirty and worn, and her hair is a bit messy as well. She even looks fairly skinny in proportion to her height. That's when a horrible thought crosses my mind: Is she homeless?

No, she can't be. She's probably under eighteen, and a homeless kid would be put into a special home or something, right?

Who am I kidding? I know nothing about this kind of stuff. My thoughts are interrupted as she begins to strum her guitar. And then comes the singing. Boy, am I not prepared for _this_:

"_Smelly cat, smelly cat_," she begins.

"What the . . . ?" I whisper so only _I_ can hear.

"_What are they feeding you?_" she continues. "_Smelly cat, smelly cat. It's not your fault._"

Well, this song sure is _interesting_, to say the least. And singing it, Phoebe looks pretty darn happy. If she really _is_ homeless, I'm glad to see that she can at least get enjoyment out of this song. It's not in my place to judge. In fact, the song is even kind of catchy. Weird, but catchy. I allow a soft smile to crease my lips.

"_They won't take you to the vet. You're obviously not their favorite pet. Smelly cat, smelly cat. It's not your fault. You may not be a bed of roses. You're no friend to those with noses._ _Smelly cat, smelly cat. It's not your fault._" She flashes a huge smile, then looks out at her audience. She must see that nobody was watching because her smile drops slightly. Then her eyes land on me.

I begin to clap. I don't know why. Maybe to make her feel better. If she's homeless, and this singing is what brings her joy, she at least deserves _one_ fan. I see her smile grow. Waitress Girl notices my clapping and joins in. Then Monica and Chandler join. The clapping intensifies, and Joey's doing it, too. Then every customer is slamming their hands together to make the congratulatory sound.

Phoebe's smile is so broad, her face must hurt. Because of me. A warm and fuzzy feeling fills my insides. I made a possibly homeless teenager happy, simply by clapping a little. As the cheering dies down, and everybody resumes their conversations, I stand up—sadly unnoticed by Monica and Chandler. I walk over to the window where Phoebe is putting her guitar into its case. I notice some loose change in the guitar case, and my heart breaks. She really _is_ homeless, isn't she? An image forms in my mind of this blonde girl standing in a subway station, playing guitar and singing as people hurry by and barely notice her, with the occasional generous person dropping whatever change they can find in their pockets into the case.

I push the thought away.

"That was really amazing," I say with a warm smile. Phoebe looks up at me, just now realizing that I'm there.

"Oh, thanks." She blushes slightly. She must not get compliments a lot.

"I mean it," I persist. "You're really talented."

She picks up her guitar case as if to leave. "Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all week," she jokes.

I laugh. "If that's true, then so will I. So, are there other songs, or just the one about the stinky feline?"

"Oh, there are others," she says with a definite smirk. "Plenty of others."

"Such as . . . ?" I push.

"Well, let's see. . . ." She pauses to think for a moment. "I wrote a song about babies, one about a double-jointed boy, another about grandparents, some about barnyard animals, there's the one about my sticky shoes, the one I wrote in the shower, and _Ode to a Pubic Hair_." She smirks at that last one.

My eyebrows shoot up. "You sure do touch a lot of subjects." I chuckle slightly with my words.

She nods. "Yeah. I like writing about everyday things so my songs can have a wider audience. You know: for men, women, and children."

"_Ode to a Pubic Hair_ is for children?" I question, cocking an eyebrow.

"Sure!" Phoebe says gleefully. "It lets them know what's to come in the next stage of their lives. I think it's a good, educational song."

"Well, I can't argue with _that_ logic," I say, defeated. There's still a part of my mind focusing on trying to figure out if this girl is homeless or not. Of course, I really hope she's not. But if she is, I sure would like to help her in any way that I can. "I'm a bit new to the city. Are you from around here? Where do you live?"

Phoebe looks a bit nervous—or maybe _really_ nervous, and she's just good at hiding it. "Oh, just down the street," she says vaguely.

_Down the street, or in the street?_ I wonder but don't say. Instead, I nod. "I'm currently staying at this boarding school. My friends and I just moved here yesterday."

"Oh, that's cool!" Phoebe says excitedly. She sure is one cheerful teenager, considering her situation—or at least what I _think_ is her situation.

It's almost kind of funny how this worked out. Just moments ago, I was complaining—in my head, of course—about how my two best friends found two new friends, and now here I am, talking to this girl like the loony hypocrite I am.

* * *

_I swear, my character only gets crazier with each new chapter. Maybe she's slowly going insane or something. Actually, that could be an interesting plot device. Blunz winds up in the loony bin at the end._

_Plot twist: This is all just happening in her head. She has imagined it all. There is no Monica. There is no Chandler. There is no __Friends__._

_No, I won't do that to you guys. Although, this story is based on a dream, so it was pretty much just my crazy imagination running wild in my sleep._

_Anyway . . ._

_I hope you guys enjoyed!_


	6. Sleepover

_Thanks for the reviews! I really cannot stress enough just how much I love those little suckers._

* * *

For her break, Rachel decided to sit with us on the orange sofa. Phoebe is now here with us. It's amazing. In just two days, the size of our group doubled. And now I'm no longer so angry about the idea. It turns out that Rachel and Joey are really nice, and they fit in with us so perfectly. And of course Phoebe is nice, too. And crazy—_very_ crazy. She's pretty fun to talk to because of that fact.

By this point, I'm positive that she's homeless. It's so sad to think that as soon as this conversation is over, and we all leave the coffeehouse, Monica, Chandler, Rachel, Joey, and I will all be heading off to cozy beds in warm homes, meanwhile Phoebe will be heading to what? A box on the street corner? Maybe some alleyway or a an old abandoned car in a junkyard. That's when an idea hits me.

"Hey, Pheebs." That's right. I'm calling her "Pheebs". If Rachel can call Monica "Mon" after only knowing her for a day, then I can call this girl "Pheebs".

"Yeah?" Phoebe asks.

I glance at Monica before replying. I don't know if she'll agree to this or not, but it's just something I have to do. "Maybe you and Rach"—now I'm trying out "Rach" as well—"can come stay at our dorm for the night. We can have, like, a sleepover or whatever. I mean, I know it's a school night, but school just started, and I doubt we're really doing anything important tomorrow that we need to be fully awake for." I don't dare turn my head to view Monica's expression. I fear her reaction to me deciding that our dorm is open to these two girls without consulting her first. Frankly, I don't _really_ want to invite Rachel. Not that I have anything against her—anymore. The invitation is more so for Phoebe so she won't have to sleep on the streets tonight.

Phoebe seems overjoyed. "Sure, thanks! That sounds really fun!"

"Yeah, I'll come along," Rachel replies. "Thanks for the invite." Monica says nothing, and I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Then, Chandler speaks up. "Hey, Joe. How 'bout you come over to my place, and we can do our nails and braid each other's hair."

Joey gives him an odd look, like he actually believes Chandler is serious. "I'm gonna have to decline. I have this audition tomorrow morning."

"Audition?" I ask, confused.

"Yeah. I told you: I want to be an actor when I grow up," Joey replies. "I'm starting small. I'm auditioning for the role of some background character in this show. I only have one line, but everybody has to start _somewhere_, you know."

"Wow," I say, kind of impressed. I thought this whole "actor" idea of his was just a fantasy. I didn't know he was actually serious. "Wait, tomorrow morning? Doesn't that mean you'll have to skip school?"

Joey nods. "Yeah. But I figure: most kinds go to school because that's what they do so they can have a good career. Well, if I want to pursue _my_ dream career, I'll have to miss a little school."

I've never thought of it that way. I've always thought of school as the most important thing in a child's life. To me, school has always seemed like the only chance at a good future, but I think this kid has a point. We all have different goals for the future. My goals require me to do very well in school, but Joey's don't. I have a very sudden and very strange respect for the guy right now.

I smile. "Well, good luck at the audition then. I really hope you get the part."

"Thanks." He checks his watch. "Well, I should be heading home now. Dinner."

"See you tomorrow?" Chandler says, though it sounds more like a question than a statement.

"Yeah, I should be back at school by history," Joey replies, standing up. "Otherwise, I'll come here after school."

"It'll be a daily thing," Chandler says. "Coming here, I mean."

"Probably," I agree. "I like this place. It's cozy."

"Plus," Phoebe adds, "that means you can visit me and Rach every day."

"Well, I need to go to the ladies' room," Monica announces, cutting into the conversation. Then, turning to me, she asks, "You wanna come with?"

I know what this is about. I can tell by that slight glare she's giving me. I dare not decline. "Um, sure." I stand up. Like the last time I made Monica angry like this, I know that she'll see my side of things as soon as I get a chance to explain, so I manage to stay fairly calm.

We head to the restroom, Monica shooting me angry glares the whole way. Once we're inside, she turns suddenly to face me with a furious look on her face.

"What the hell was _that_?" she hisses.

I get a very strong sense of déjà vu. Wait, no. Not déjà vu. This has happened before—just yesterday. "Let me explain."

"Yes, _please_ explain. Please explain to me why you invited two girls we _barely_ know to stay in our dorm—to stay with us while we're _asleep_! I know I may just sound paranoid, but I'm not all that comfortable with the idea."

I sigh. I really don't want to have to tell her this. It's really not in my place to tell, but I have to. "I—I think Phoebe is . . . I think she's homeless," I stutter.

Monica's angry look turns to one of confusion, then terror. "What?"

"I may be wrong, but all the signs point to it," I explain further. "Her clothes don't look old and dirty, like she's been wearing them for several weeks at a time. Her hair is knotted and untaken care of. And I saw some loose change in her guitar case."

Monica looks suspicious of the idea. "I don't know if that means—"

"I know, it's just a theory," I interrupt. "But . . . I just don't want to take a chance if it's true. Because, if it is, then she doesn't exactly have a home to go back to or a bed to sleep in. I mean, did you see how excited she was at the idea of a sleepover? Compare that to Rachel's reaction."

Monica is silent for several long seconds. Then, finally, she sighs. "Okay, you may be right. We can't just let her stay on the streets. Maybe we can find out during the sleepover if she really _is_ homeless or not."

"What are you suggesting? Truth or Dare?" Bad time to make jokes, I know. I almost want to hit myself for that one.

"You know," Monica says, "that may not be the _worst_ idea."

I give her a confused look. "You can't be serious. What are you going to do? Wait until she picks _truth_ and then ask _'Are you homeless?'_ and hope she answers truthfully if she is?" Just the idea of it is ridiculous.

"Well, we don't necessarily have to be _that_ direct. But we can ask leading questions."

"Like . . . ?" I prompt.

"Like . . ." She pauses to think. "Like _'Have you ever stolen anything?'_ Chances are, if she really _is_ homeless, she has had to mug a guy or two."

I frown. "That's sad. I really hope she's not. Nobody should have to go through that, especially not a teenager. It's just not fair."

"Who said life was fair?" Monica asks rhetorically.

"You sound just like my mother," I mutter.

"I've _met_ your mother, and that's a terrifying thought."

"How do you think I feel when my relatives say I'm _turning into_ her?" I ask, although I _know_ Monica knows how that feels. People constantly tell her that she looks and acts just like her crazy mother.

Now, she's back to glaring at me. "New subject, please?"

. . .

An hour later, Rachel, Phoebe, Monica, and I are all at our dorm, clothed in pajamas, each of us clutching a bowl of freshly-popped popcorn. It's not even late yet, but Phoebe insisted that we change into our pajamas. There's something more than a _bit_ suspicious about the fact that she brought her clothing in her guitar case, along with her blanket—and no pillow. I'm still surprised by the fact that I didn't notice her blanket and pajamas stored in her guitar case before. I guess I was too distracted by the money. Money _is_ shiny, after all. Shiny things can be so distracting sometimes.

I offered Phoebe one of my extra pillows, which she gladly accepted. Now, we're getting ready to watch a movie. We all suggested different movies we wanted to watch, but after hearing Phoebe's vote, I changed mine to hers. So, here we are, setting up _E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial_. This always has been—and forever will be—one of my favorite movies. And Phoebe is one of my favorite people for suggesting it.

. . .

Scratch that. We should've never watched _E.T._ Now, Phoebe is on the verge of tears. Apparently, her mother never showed her the end of this movie.

"I can't believe he leaves!" she sobs. "Why does E.T. have to leave? How do you think Elliot feels about this?

Rachel just looks plain confused. "How did you _think_ the movie ended?"

"My mom always stopped the movie right after Elliot kisses that girl," Phoebe explains. "You know, because E.T. was watching _The Quiet Man."_

"What kind of an ending is _that_?" Rachel questions.

"A _happy_ one!" Phoebe exclaims.

"Did it not occur to you how short the movie was when it ended that early?"

"Well, let's see: all the other movies in the world are about that long, so I didn't really question it."

Rachel cocks and eyebrow. "Come again?"

"Wait, wait, wait," Monica interrupts. "Pheebs, I'm sorry to tell you this, but I think your mother has been hiding the true endings of _all_ movies from you."

Phoebe's eyes go wide. "What? Why would she do _that_?"

Monica shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe she didn't want you to see the sad endings some of them have. I guess she just wanted you to be happy."

Phoebe still looks confused. "This coming from a woman who killed herself?"

The room is plunged into silence.

What? Phoebe's mother killed herself? I feel my throat go dry as a huge lump forms. I can't breathe! I swallow several times to try to clear the lump, but it's no use. This girl's situation is even worse than I expected.

Phoebe looks around at the three shocked faces staring back at her. "What? Oh, did I forget to mention that?" She shrugs. "Funny. You'd think I would've at least told _Rachel_ by now."

"Yeah, you'd think," Rachel agrees. Her voice turns both serious and comforting. "Phoebe, are you serious? Your mom really killed herself?"

She nods casually, not really seeming to grasp the severity of our reactions.

"Oh, Pheebs," Rachel says tenderly. "I'm so sorry." She gently places her hand on her friend's arm.

Phoebe just looks confused. "You're _sorry_? She died two years ago. I'm not exactly mourning over it anymore. I mean, sure I miss her, but it was a long time ago. It doesn't really affect me all that much nowadays, to be honest."

"I just can't believe I didn't know this," Rachel says, still in shock. "I mean, with how long we've known each other . . ."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that," Phoebe apologizes. "I should've told you. I guess it just never came up." She shrugs, once again acting way too casual in comparison to the rest of us. "So, what do you guys wanna do now."

"Well, I don't suggest we watch another movie," I say, speaking for the first time in a while.

"Amen to _that_," Rachel concurs.

"How about we play . . ." I glance at Monica. She gives a slight nod. "_Truth or Dare_?"

"Oh, that sounds fun!" Phoebe shouts, very excitedly. "How do you play?"

Monica, Rachel, and I all exchange looks. Rachel is the one to voice our shared opinion. "You don't know how to play _Truth or Dare_?"

Phoebe shakes her head. "No. Is that . . . is that weird?"

"A little," Rachel says quietly.

We all jump in to explain the game to Phoebe. Once she has grasped the concept, she sounds pretty excited about it.

"Oh, can I go first?" she asks, practically shaking in anticipation. We all tell her to go ahead, and she does. "Okay, um . . . Rachel: Truth or Dare?"

She thinks for a moment. "Truth."

Phoebe doesn't hesitate. "Have you ever seen animals reproducing?"

I have to suppress a laugh. The question is so crazy, so weird, so . . . Phoebe.

"Well . . . ," Rachel begins with a slight smirk, although there's also a hint of disgust in her eyes. "When I was two, I walked in on my parents . . . making my sister, Jill. And the way they were going at it, they sure _seemed_ like animals."

"Oh, that's . . . lovely," I say with feigned disturbance. Really, I just find it pretty funny.

Rachel looks right at me and says with a devilish grin, "Your turn. Truth or Dare?"

I sigh heavily. I tend to keep a lot to myself and don't really like to share much about myself. "Dare, I suppose."

"And you sound so enthusiastic about it," Monica remarks. I give her a dirty look, and she puts her hands up in a defensive gesture. "Sorry."

Rachel is smirking big-time now. "Dare, you say? Just what I was hoping for." She rubs her hands together mischievously. Now, I'm scared. "I dare you to ask out Joey."

My eyes widen, and I let out a nervous chuckle. "I really don't foresee that happening." I swallow. She's not _actually_ going to make me do this, is she?

"Hey, _you're_ the one who picked Dare."

"Come on, Rach," Phoebe pleads. "Don't actually make her do it."

"What, do you _like_ Joey or something?" Rachel asks her.

"What?" she asks, surprised by the question. "Eww, of course not!"

"Then why are you blushing?" I bring up, enjoying that they're no longer talking about me.

"Hey, don't you turn on _me_," Phoebe threatens, jabbing an accusing finger in my direction. "You still haven't done your turn."

"What, you want me to ask him out over the _phone_?" I ask, not believing this. Joey is about the last guy I would ever choose to go out with. I mean, I've only known him for a few hours, but I don't have a good feeling about the guy. When all I get in reply are three nodding heads—apparently, Phoebe isn't sticking up for me anymore—I let out a long sigh. "Fine. Hand me the phone." Rachel tosses it to me, and I catch it. "Anybody know his number?" Monica does, and I dial as she tells it to me. I put the phone up to my ear and listen to it ring. _Please don't pick up_, I beg within my head. _Please, please, please don't._

My silent pleading sadly has no effect, as I hear the ringing stop, and Joey's voice appears on the other end.

_"Hello?"_ he asks.

Another sigh from me. I cannot believe I'm about to say these words. I cannot believe I'm about to ask Joey out. I just cannot accept the fact that my first boyfriend might just wind up being Joey. There's no way my parents will ever let me forget this.

"Hey, Joe," I greet him through clenched teeth.

_"Oh, hey. What's up?"_

"I—I have to ask you a question." Snickers come from Rachel and Phoebe, though Monica has nothing but pity written all over her face—at least, when I look at her, she does.

_"Sure. What is it?"_ Joey asks calmly, completely unaware of the words that are about to leave my mouth.

I swallow and take a deep breath. I'm just gonna do it. Just gonna do it. Just . . . gonna . . . do it. "Joey," I say, having to exhale another sigh before continuing. I speak slowly—oh, so slowly. "Would you . . . like to go out . . . with me?"

* * *

_Bit of a cliffhanger, I know. Sorry. I just had to._

_Luckily for you guys, I'll probably update tomorrow or the next day, so it won't be too much of a wait._

_I hope you guys enjoyed!_


	7. Crying Fest

_Thank you guys for the reviews!_

_I'm running out of ways to attempt to tell you guys just how much I love them. I'm about ready to give up trying. There really are no words to express my love for those reviews._

_Sorry if this chapter is really terrible. This is written by someone who has never asked someone out, been asked out, or gone on a date before—so, I pretty much have no idea what I'm doing._

_I hope the chapter is still interesting despite my lack of this kind of knowledge._

* * *

_"Really?"_ Joey asks, sounding shocked. _"I would love to!"_

My eyes widen slightly, and I smile despite myself. More giggles from Phoebe and Rachel. I feel my face redden, and I force the smile away. I'm not happy. Why am I smiling? This is just about the _worst_ situation _ever!_

With a strong scowl on my face, I say in the cheeriest voice I can muster, "Great." Since I have no idea what to say next—I've never done anything like this before!—I decide to try to bring this conversation to an end. "How 'bout we go out tomorrow night? There's this restaurant down the block. Nice place."

_"Okay,"_ Joey says, and I can practically hear his smile through the phone. _"We could meet at the coffeehouse. Let's say: six-ish?"_

"We'll probably already be at Central Perk by then," I comment, receiving a chuckle from Joey.

_"Yeah, probably,"_ he agrees. _"Well, see you then."_

"See you then," I say quietly into the phone before hanging up. I turn around sharply, intending to throw the phone at Rachel—not a hard throw, of course; just enough to produce a little blood, maybe kill her—but before I can, she's speaking.

"Have fun on your date," she teases.

"What was that smile about, by the way?" Phoebe notes in a taunting tone.

I roll my eyes. "I hate you two," I mutter under my breath. Then, loud enough so that they can hear: "I just had a feeling that he was about to say no, but then he said yes, so I stopped smiling."

"Yeah, right," Rachel says doubtfully, unfooled. "That was a lovey-dovey smile. Like one you would see on someone who's in _love_."

A fiery rage boils inside me, taking over. My hand jerks back, and then forward. I let go of the phone. It flies through the air and lands on the ground, shattering to pieces mere feet away from Rachel.

"It's not funny!" I shout—almost scream. Our neighbors can't be too happy about this. I wonder if Chandler can hear me from his dorm, but I don't care. "That was cruel, and not just for me. For Joey, too!" Rachel's eyes widen as she suddenly realizes that I'm being serious. "I just cannot believe you made me do that." I mostly blame myself. If I just persisted more, I'm sure I could've gotten out of it. But all my anger right now is focused on Rachel. "Now I have to go out with him, and eventually I'll have to break up with him, and . . ." I put my head into my hands and groan. "Why? Why did I go through with it? I hate myself. I _really_ hate myself."

When I quiet down, I hear a surprising sound: sobbing. Is that . . . Rachel? I drop my hands so I can see. My God, it _is_ Rachel! I made somebody cry! What the hell has gotten into me? She was just having fun. I mean, _I_ was the one who suggested we play _Truth or Dare_. It's not like there's a rule against daring somebody to ask someone out.

My expression softens, and I feel tears of my own prick at my eyes. I swear, if this sleepover turns into a crying fest, I'll just lose it. "R—Rachel?" I speak softly. Monica and Phoebe look up at me from comforting the crying girl. Rachel continues to sob into her hands, not even the slightest reaction to me calling her name. I try again. "Rach . . . I—I'm sorry." A lump forms in my throat—for about the twentieth time today—and I choke up.

"Don't be," she croaks through a sob. She removes her hands from her face and wipes her eyes. "I shouldn't have made you do that. _I'm_ sorry."

"No, this isn't your fault," I say, moving to sit next to her. "I suggested _Truth or Dare_, yet _I'm_ the one complaining about your dare. I'm really sorry for . . . making you cry and everything."

"That's not really your fault. The crying, I mean," she quickly adds. "I break down kind of easily."

I nod, understanding. "Believe me, I can relate." I sigh and shrug my shoulders. "Who knows? Maybe this whole 'date' thing won't go so bad. You know, if you think about it, this is kind of a good thing." Receiving a confused look from Rachel—and Monica and Phoebe—I continue. "I mean, before tonight, I've never had the confidence to ask someone out. But then, all of a sudden, I'm on the phone with some guy I just met, and now I've got a date." It's a load of crap, but I'm hoping she'll buy it. I smile to help prove my point. "Thanks for that."

She laughs. "You're insane."

"Yeah, I know," I say with a smirk. "It runs in the family." I dread the silence that follows. Luckily, Phoebe's crazy antics break that silence.

"So, what other movies have sad endings?"

I shake my head sadly. "Just trust me on this one, Pheebs: Do not—for the sake of all things good and holy—_ever_ watch _Old Yeller_."

Phoebe's eyes widen. "What happens to Travis?" she asks, her voice cracking slightly.

"Um . . . ," Monica says awkwardly. "It's not really _Travis_ you have to worry about."

"But, what do—," Phoebe begins, but I interrupt her.

"You don't want to know." Phoebe's expression turns to one of horror as she seems to catch on to what we're saying.

"No, not the dog! Not the dog!" she begs. "Please, not the dog!"

Rachel leans to whisper in my ear. "She's a vegetarian. Loves animals."

Well, _that_ can't be good. "No, nothing happens to the dog," I lie. "But . . . just don't watch it, okay?"

She takes a deep breath to steady herself. "Okay," she finally agrees. "Though, I'm still in the mood for a movie. How about _Pride of the Yankees_? I'd like to see some Yankee pride."

In unison, Monica, Rachel, and I all shout, "No!"

* * *

_This chapter was unbelievably short. I would've made it longer, but what I have planned next should probably go in a separate chapter._

_I hope you guys enjoyed!_


	8. Cheater

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_I love you reviewers in ways that are not creepy at all. Definitely not creepy. Definitely not._

_**Missineichen: **__Thank you so much for going back and reviewing previous chapters. I still cannot believe you're actually reviewing my story. I never mentioned this before, but I reacted pretty much in the same fangirl-like way to when I saw Sweet Sugarrrush reviewing my work. Two of my favorite authors on this site, reviewing my work . . . I just don't know what to say! This is too wonderful!_

* * *

I'm no longer so concerned as to whether Phoebe is homeless or not. All that really matters at the moment is that she's having fun, safe and warm inside this dorm. As long as she's not sleeping on the streets, I'm happy.

Now, we're all under blankets, resting our heads on pillows, sleeping. Well, except for me. I can't sleep. I'm still a little nervous about tomorrow night.

No, that's a lie. I'm _very_ nervous. More nervous than I've ever been in my entire life. My fingernails are nearly gone since I've been chewing on the damn things for the past two hours.

My first date, and _this_ is how I prepare: by chewing up my fingernails. Oh, I must be _so_ attractive right now! What, with my fingers in my mouth and the little bits of nail sprinkled on the floor around me. As much as I would like to stop, I can't. Something is drawing me to the calming sensation of chewing. I hear that's the very reason Monica used to be . . . heavier. Living with her terrible mother who always favored Ross over her, no wonder she ate so much! Chewing can be such a stress-reliever. Maybe if Monica just chewed her fingernails instead of chocolate cake, she wouldn't have become so obese. I don't know. It's not really in my place to judge. Plus, maybe her mother never let her chew her fingernails. Maybe Mrs. Geller always had unhealthy food around the house, and Monica was too tempted by it.

I'm not really sure why I'm thinking about Monica right now when I have more important things on my mind. Maybe I'm just trying to distract my thoughts. Obviously, thinking about my date with Joey tomorrow isn't helping me sleep. I've been up for two extra hours now, and we went to bed kind of late as well. School might not be so fun tomorrow.

Somehow, in the middle of this thought, I manage to finally let the dark abyss of sleep overtake me.

. . .

We wake up annoyingly early. It was Monica's idea to set the alarms early, knowing that we would be extra tired from staying up so late last night and would probably function slower in the morning. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I want to murder the crazy lady.

I was only able to sleep for five hours last night—which doesn't sound _too_ bad if you take away my dread of what's to come in the later hours of today. Can't I just stay in bed all day? Call the school, tell them I'm too sick to come . . . Call Joey, tell _him_ I'm too sick as well. If only life were that simple.

I reluctantly get ready, hating the thought of having to face a certain someone during history today.

. . .

I trudge to history class, my vision directed at the slow movement of my feet as I walk. I look up as to not hit the doorframe as I enter the classroom. I see Monica, and judging by her expression, she seems to take note of my apprehensive discomposure. Luckily, she's the only one to notice—I hope.

I'm immensely thankful for the fact that Joey isn't here yet. Maybe he won't even make it today. Maybe he'll still be at that audition.

I make my way to my seat—the one to the very right of Monica's—just as I see Chandler coming in. He takes the seat on the other side of Monica. I suddenly realize that he's the only one in our group that doesn't know about my date with Joey tonight. Well, he'll find out soon enough. I sigh. I really wish I didn't have to let more people in on this. But I don't have much of a choice, do I? Joey and I are meeting up at the coffeehouse, and chances are that Chandler will be there.

I thought boarding school would be fun. Well, I couldn't have _been_ more wrong.

Great. Now I'm beginning to sound like _Chandler_. At least a little bit. Before I know it, that very kid is speaking to me and Monica.

"I should let you guys know: Joey called and said that he wouldn't be able to make it to class today." He pauses, and looks directly at me. "Oh, and he said to make sure _you_, specifically, got the message. Not sure why."

I take a nervous glance at Monica before looking back in Chandler's direction. "I—I think I may know why." For some reason, I'm not letting myself feel any relief at the fact that Joey won't be coming to class today. "You see, I . . . um . . . ," I trail off. I take a deep breath and start again: "I, um . . . I kind of asked Joe—"

The tardy bell rang, interrupting me mid-sentence. Saved by the bell.

. . .

Chandler, Monica, and I all enter the coffeehouse, me with great disinclination. Obviously, Rachel is there, and with an additional quick scan around, I notice Phoebe as well. She's by the microphone stand, either having just done a song or just about to start a song. When she sees us and walks over, I figure it was probably the prior.

"Where's Joey?" she asks the group. She glances at me, giving me a sad look. Then, she goes back to staring at the whole group.

"Still at the audition," Monica answers.

"Jeez," Phoebe says, surprised. "Long audition. It's already, like, three o'clock."

I check my watch. She's right. And that only reminds me of the fact that I have a date in three hours. A knot forms in my stomach. My nervousness is indescribable, it's so terrible. Trying to sound like a casual part of the conversation, I say, "Well, it'll probably be done soon." I shrug.

"What'll probably be done soon?" a suddenly appearing Rachel asks. I didn't see her approaching, so her voice startles me. She spoke from out of my view and is now walking to where I can see her.

"Joey's audition," I reply once I've calmed my nerves. I'm a bit jumpy at the moment, so hearing a sudden voice behind me scared the crap out of me.

Rachel wears an expression of confusion. "He's still at that audition?"

I roll my eyes. Can we stop talking about Joey already? "Yes, he's still at the audition," I say in an almost bored-sounding tone. "New subject please?" I request. Simultaneously, Monica, Phoebe, and Rachel's confused expressions turn sympathetic. Rachel murmurs a quietly apology, and now _Chandler_ is the confused one.

"Are you okay?" he asks me, his voice filled with concern.

"Yeah," I say unconvincingly. "I'm fine."

Probably to try to change the subject, Rachel quickly interrupts the conversation to ask if we would like anything to eat or drink. We all give her our orders, and she runs off to get our treats and coffee. That's when Chandler's phone decides to ring.

"Hello?" he speaks into the phone once he has it by his ear. A look of confusion comes over him. Dang, that kid is confused a lot. "Um . . . okay." He moves the phone away from his ear and turns to face me. "It's Joey. He wants to speak to you."

I take the phone, ignoring Chandler's questioning stare. Eventually, I _will_ have to explain the whole situation to him—just not right now. "Hey, Joe," I speak as casually into the phone as possible. Meanwhile, I can feel myself shaking, and the usual lump forms in my throat. Why do I always have to get that stupid lump in my throat? It makes it so hard to breathe . . . and then my face turns red.

_"Hey,"_ he replies in a shy voice. _"I have some bad news."_ There's an almost guilty sound to the way he says the words.

"What is it?" I ask, my voice quavering. I can't help it sometimes. My voice has a mind of its own, it seems.

_"I, um . . . I don't think I'm going to be able to make it to that date tonight."_

I feel a disturbingly lovely feeling as my hopes lift significantly. Jeez. I thought he was going to tell me that my parents died or something _actually_ bad.

Okay, I'm a horrible person. Joey is a perfectly nice guy—as far as I know—yet I've been so reluctant to the mere _thought_ of going out with him.

I realize very suddenly that I haven't replied to what Joey said. "Oh, um . . . Why's that?"

_"It's this audition,"_ he replies. _"I—I think I may have gotten the part."_ I hear the excitement showing through the disappointment in his voice.

"That's great!" I say.

_"Yeah, well, it _would_ be, but I have to stay here until . . . well, until it's late. Bit of a long story. Anyway, that means we'll have to reschedule the date. I'm sorry."_

"Oh, it's fine," I say breezily. I feel almost as if I'm walking on air—like how most girls my age would feel if they were in the very _opposite_ situation. "Don't worry about it. I'm really happy for you." This is great for Joey, and this is _wonderful_ for me! I can just pretend that I'm willing to reschedule the date, then act like I have no available time beyond tonight and that I'm always too busy, and maybe he'll eventually get the message or move on to someone else or whatever.

I really _am_ a horrible person.

_"Thanks," _Joey replies, and I can practically see the subtle smile on his face. _"I'm really sorry, though."_

"Don't be," I persist. "Really, it's fine." We say our goodbyes, and I hang up.

"So, what was _that_ about?" Chandler asks as I hand him back his phone.

May as well tell him, I figure. I'll have to sooner or later. Why not sooner?

I take a deep breath as I begin to speak to him. "I'm kind of . . . _seeing_ Joey." I'm pretty proud of myself for not adding in a chorus of "um"s and "like"s to stall the core of the sentence. I just _said _it. I don't do that often.

Chandler gives me a look of confusion in reply. "What do you mean?"

"I'm _seeing_ him," I repeat, as if _that_ would clarify what I meant. "We're . . . we're a couple—a _thing_. We had a date planned for tonight, but he had to cancel because of something involving his audition."

"_You two_ are a couple?" Chandler shook his head in bemusement. "I thought he was going out with that Kathy girl."

I tilt my head. Now _I'm_ the confused one. "What Kathy girl?"

"Yesterday—in history class—when I was talking to him, he mentioned something about his girlfriend, Kathy."

"What?" I nearly shout in anger and surprise, suddenly realizing what's going on here. Is he . . . _cheating_ on me? The better question is: Why do I care? I never wanted to get with Joey in the first place. My first impression of him was a terrible one, so why am I even surprised?

It's just . . . why _me_? Why do these things always happen to me? I finally get a boyfriend—even if I didn't want him to be my boyfriend—and he cheats on me. Well, technically, he's cheating on Kathy _with_ me, not _on_ me. Or is he cheating on both of us? _With_ both of us? All this cheating business is too confusing. Why do people even cheat in the first place?

One of life's great unanswerable questions. Err, maybe not so great.

* * *

_I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter._

_As you can probably tell without me pointing it out to you guys, I'm no longer updating every day. Updates will probably now be a weekly thing. While I write this, I'm also working on this other story (and occasionally doing something with my life besides reading and writing, like studying for exams), which makes it kind of difficult to update very quickly. Luckily for you guys, though, I only have two more school days left until summer break, and once summer hits, I should have a lot more time to work on my stories._

_That is, unless my parents actually want me to get out of the house at some point during the two-month break. If it were my choice, I would sit at my computer forever—or at least until I die. But it sadly isn't my choice._


	9. Clueless Chandler

_Thanks for the reviews, everybody! I think I've officially run out of "creative" ways to express my love for them (and for you guys who wrote them)._

_**Sweet Sugarrrush: **__I've been biting my nails ever since I was just an egg and a sperm, and I don't even know how that's possible. To me, it's just a normal, everyday thing. Heck, I'm even biting the stupid things right now!  
And, yes: typical Joey, indeed. When the idea popped into my head, I thought it was crazy, but I figured I could probably pull it off. Especially by using Kathy, considering the fact that he actually __did__ cheat on her during the show. Of course, she kind of cheated on him back . . . and then she cheated on Chandler, as well. In all, it seemed that nobody could really have too much of a healthy relationship with that girl._

_I hope you guys enjoy the chapter, and I'm sorry for the wait._

* * *

I have to confront him. I have to.

But can I do it today? Will I even have a chance to see him at _all_ today? Or will I have to wait until tomorrow, at school? That is, if he's even in school tomorrow. Because, you know how busy those "auditions" can make a person.

Yeah, right. Like he was actually going to an audition. It was probably all a load of bull crap. Just so he could cheat on me. Just so he could be with _Kathy_ and do stuff with _Kathy_ and make out with _Kathy_ and have sex with _Kathy_. Or whatever it is that whores like _Kathy_ do. Okay, I don't know for sure if Kathy's a whore. That's just how I picture her.

I'm not really sure why I'm mad at Kathy, though, when _she's_ being cheated on as much as_ I_ am. Really, I should feel bad for her.

Wait, no I shouldn't. Someone should feel bad for _me_ before I start feeling bad for _her_. I mean, my _first_ boyfriend winds up cheating on me. This is just . . . This is horrible.

"I'm still confused." Chandler's voice cuts into my thoughts. "What's going on here?"

"I think . . . I think Joey's cheating on me," I say, staring off into space in bewilderment. I can't see Chandler's reaction. All I see is this one spot on the wall that I'm staring at. For some reason, I find this one spot on the wall very fascinating.

There's a long pause before I hear Chandler's voice in reply. "You think you know a guy," Chandler finally says, and I can sense the hint of sarcasm creeping through the serious-sounding statement. He _does_ have a point. We've only known Joey for a day, so it would be hard to say that this cheating business comes as a surprise. We don't know Joey well enough to make such a claim. But along with that sarcasm and seriousness is some level of sympathy. I don't know if I really _want_ sympathy. It always seems to create a nauseating feeling in my stomach.

I must not be the only one noticed the sympathy, because now Phoebe and Monica are giving me sad looks. Rachel comes back with a tray full of coffees and pastries. She freezes when she sees the group's shared facial expression of sadness.

"Okay, who died?" she asks sarcastically.

I really don't feel like explaining, so I'm thankful when Phoebe speaks up. "We think that Joey might be . . . seeing someone else." I take note of her unique wording of the situation. Joey isn't _cheating on me_. He's _seeing someone else_. I'm not really sure why I care so much about how she puts it. The message is still clear, either way.

I stare down at my hands that rest oh-so-neatly in my lap as to avoid the sympathetic look Rachel is probably giving me. Can everybody just _stop it_ with the sympathy? It's not like I even _liked_ Joey in the first place. In a way, I kind of deserve this. I shouldn't have gone through with the dare. I'm sure, if I pushed hard enough, I could've gotten out of it.

"_What?_" Rachel exclaims, as if it's the craziest thing she's ever heard. "Joey might be _what?_"

"Cheating on me!" I shout, the words slipping out before I even know what's happening. "Joey might be cheating on me," I say, forcing a calmness over my words so that I'm no longer shouting. I suddenly realize how quickly I change what problem I'm focusing on. When Chandler, Monica, and I just got to the boarding school, I was completely focused on trying to get the two of them together. Well, that idea faded quickly. And then I was panicking at the fact that they were making new friends. But then I met Phoebe and became a complete hypocrite. Then, came my worrying over whether or not Phoebe was homeless. I stopped even _thinking_ about that when this whole thing with me asking out Joey arose. And even now, that's already a problem of the past. My current dilemma is the fact that he might just be cheating on me. It's kind of funny how none of my previous problems have really gone away; I've just been choosing to ignore them. I can only focus on one thing at a time, you know?

You probably don't. Whoever _"you"_ are.

I finally look up from my hands to gauge Rachel's reaction. Her expression is—of course—one of sympathy, but there's something else there. I can't quite put my finger on it. And then it hits me: _anger_. Rachel is _angry_. This comes as quite a shock to me. I'm not really sure why. I guess it's just a little weird for her to be at all surprised at the actions of someone we all just met. Although, I appreciate the anger much more than the sympathy. I guess that says something about me.

"Are you kidding me?" She appears to do nothing to hold back the fury in her voice. "He's cheating on you? After only _one day_ of being a couple?"

"Well, he's technically cheating on the other girl _with _me," I clarify.

That's when Rachel's face softens. Now, her expression is completely sympathetic. No more anger. "Oh, my God," she whispers in a much calmer voice.

"What?" I ask confused.

"I'm so sorry. This is all my fault." And then her expression changes yet again, now more apologetic than sympathetic. I'm surprised I even notice the difference. It subtle.

"What? No, it's not your fault!" I say quickly out of fear of provoking tears again. "I was the one who asked him out."

"Yeah, but you wouldn't have if it weren't for my dare."

"But I—," I begin, only to be cut off by Chandler.

"Can someone tell me what's going on here?"

The other four of us exchange glances.

"Well, you see—," Rachel says after a moment's hesitation, but I interrupt her.

"No, I'll explain," I cut her off. She clearly still feels bad, which is probably the reason she offered to explain the whole situation to Chandler, but I feel that I should be the one to explain it. "Last night," I begin, "we were playing _Truth or Dare_."

And then Rachel's speaking again, completely ignoring my statement that I would tell the story. "And it was my turn. Well, long story short: I dared her to ask out Joey."

"Wait, hold up," Chandler says. "You _all_ knew about this?" I look around at the others to see them nodding silently. Chandler looks furious at this fact. "So, I'm the _only_ one not in the know? What, were you planning on leaving me completely unaware of what's going on around here? I'm just supposed to be stupid clueless Chandler?"

"Pretty much," Phoebe answers before anyone can stop her. We all glare angered looks at her.

"Wrong answer, Pheebs," I whisper, though I'm not even trying to stop the others from hearing. In fact, I have no idea why I'm whispering in the first place.

And then the group is plunged into silence. After almost a full minute, Rachel speaks up—not surprisingly, in my defense. "This still doesn't justify what Joey did."

Chandler gives her the most perfect _"Are you a complete idiot?" _look I've ever seen. "Of course it doesn't justify what Joey did!" His shouting causing heads to turn and people to stare. "What? Do you think I'm some moron who can't figure that out?"

I sigh and put my head in my hands. I was so sure that coming to this boarding school would be such a great thing, but I was _so_ wrong. Nothing good has come of it. When did life get so complicated? I miss the days back when I was just the quiet smart girl in regular public school. Back when it was just Monica, Chandler, and me. Back when I wasn't torturing myself in a vain attempt at acquiring a taste for coffee. Back when we were kids.

How in the world was that time just three _days_ ago? It feels like it's been a lifetime since then.

The others must have noticed my distress because I hear Rachel speaking to Phoebe: "Pheebs, honey, cleanse her aura! Cleanse her aura!"

My _what?_

"No, her aura's fine," Phoebe replies. I cannot believe the ridiculous conversation going on around me. "It's you guys. You're disrupting her aura. There's a general negativity in the air. I can't quite place my finger on it."

I'm glad my hands are there to block Phoebe from seeing me rolling my eyes. I drop my hands to my sides. "My aura is fine, thank you." I force politeness into the words. I'm not one to disrespect others' beliefs, no matter how wacky they are. "I'm just . . . regretful."

"Of . . . ?" she prompts.

"What do you think?" I don't say it bitterly. I'm very careful not to. "It's this whole 'Joey' thing. Why did I have to ask him out? Why?"

"Because I told you to?" Rachel asks timidly.

I throw my head into my hands again. "Stop blaming yourself! Just _stop_! This is _not_ your fault."

"But it is," she says softly.

I know there's not point in arguing it, so I stay silent. The others seem to follow my lead, as the room is now plunged into soundlessness. Of course, my mind tries to make up for this silence with thought. I'm forced to think about how I'm supposed to solve this problem. I'll have to confront Joey . . . but how? Am I supposed to wait until the next time I see him, or should I go looking for him? And when I find him, what do I say? _"Hey, I know you're cheating on me"?_ And then what? Do we break up? I guess so.

History class will _not_ be too fun after today—with me seeing him _every_ day until the end of the school year. And, of course, we just _had_ to choose seats so near each other. Maybe I can ask for a seat change.

_When did life get so complicated?_ I think for the second time today.

I miss being single.

* * *

_I hope you guys enjoyed this mainly uneventful chapter._

_The next chapter probably will not be easy to write, so be prepared for a bit of a wait._

_Also, if any of you guys like my writing style, I would appreciate it if you could give my newest one-shot __Planetarium Proposal__ a read. It's a Lobster story. I know the Lobsters aren't nearly as popular as Mondler on this site, but I would really be glad to see more views on that story._


	10. Confrontation

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_**Guest:**__ Before I answer your question, I just have to ask: "wondering...ment"? Are you trying to kill me? That line was hilarious! I loved Ross in the early seasons! He was so awkward and dorky and awesome!  
Now, to actually answer the question: It's a bit of a character thing I'm going for (though, I'm not so sure that I'm very good at it). You see, since "she" is me, it can be difficult for me to explain "her" actions since I'm so used to "her" personality. To me, it's just normal, but I'll do my best to explain the struggle "she" has with the thought of breaking up with someone.  
"She" is the kind of person who is so darn socially awkward that "she" struggles to even talk to people in general. She's mostly fine when it comes to chatting with Monica and Chandler since she's known them a while, but when it comes to newer people in her life (such as Joey), "she" can struggle to just say a simple greeting. Therefore, having a serious conversation (such as a breakup) would be about the worst thing imaginable to "her".  
I hope that clears things up.  
(It's amazing how much easier it is to tell people stuff about myself when I refer to myself as "she".)_

_Hey! We're up to ten chapters now! Yay! I feel like I've actually accomplished something now!_

_I love exclamation points! (And exclamation marks! It's interchangeable!)_

* * *

I was really hoping the day could go slower than this. We're already in history class, and I feel like the day just started. Maybe, if I'm lucky, Joey will be absent again. Yeah, maybe, he'll be absent so he can cheat on me with that Kathy girl.

I guess it's a little weird that I now _want_ him to cheat on me. I really _am_ insane, aren't I?

Well, looks like my prayers are going unheard today. Here comes Joey. In through the door, over to his desk. He waves to me on the way, giving me a guilty smile. He sits down.

And then he's speaking to me. "Sorry for canceling the date," are the first words out of his mouth. Why does he have to talk to me? Do I _look_ like I want to chat? Chandler and Monica aren't talking to me. _They_ can take a hint.

Although, the only hint I'm really supplying Joey with is my distraught look and the fact that I'm not making eye-contact with him. But I _never_ make eye-contact with _anybody_. It's nothing new!

I mumble a semi-rude "whatever" and rest my head in my hands. When will this lesson be over? It feels like we've been here for hours, and the class hasn't even started yet. Jeez. Mere seconds ago, I was hoping for the day to go by _slower_. I feel a bit like Goldilocks at the moment. Well, not really.

Joey gives me a concerned look. "Are you okay?" he asks in a soft voice laced with a tinge of guilt.

Well, at least he feels bad about it. Of course, that still doesn't make up for what he's done, but it makes me hate him a _little_ less. "Fine," I mutter. I sigh, then sit up to face him. "Actually, I'm not fine. I think we, uh . . . We need to talk." A worried expression crosses his features. He seems to relax a bit when the bell rings, signaling the beginning of class. Before the teacher starts the day's lesson, I quickly add, "After school—your dorm." Joey nods in agreement.

So, it's set. Knowing what's to come this afternoon—knowing that we're actually going to have this conversation in a matter of mere hours—my nervousness only seems to grow.

And I'm back to wishing for a slower day.

. . .

Joey and I skip the daily "ritual" of going to Central Perk after school and head right to his dorm. As we walk, I'm finding it progressively harder to breathe with the growing knot in my stomach and lump in my throat. It's like my body is trying to kill me—as if _that's_ the only way out of this mess. Yup, dying is a _great_ solution.

Before I know it, we're situated in Joey's dorm, sitting on his couch, each of us waiting for the other to start the conversation. I know I should—given, it was _my_ idea for us to come here—but I just can't seem to bring myself to form words. Finally, Joey gives up waiting for me, and he speaks.

"So . . . what did you want to talk about?"

Well, it's a start.

"I, um . . ." I clear my throat and begin again. "I . . ." Not much success the second time either. Third time's the charm? "We need to talk."

Well, that was about the most pointless statement I've ever made. Especially considering I _already_ said that. I just didn't know what else to say. I mean, how do I start this kind of conversation? _"Hey, Joey. I think you're cheating on me. Are you?"_ Is _that_ what I'm supposed to say? I don't know if I can say such words. It's so . . . forward. I'm definitely _not_ forward.

But maybe that's exactly what I need to be.

"Hey . . . Joey?" I begin timidly.

"Yeah?"

I let out a shaky sigh. I just need to come out and say it. It'll be easier that way. "Look, Joey . . . Chandler told me that you're seeing this Kathy girl, but I thought you were with me . . . so, could you explain to me what's going on here? Are you cheating on me or something?" There are a few small stutters and slight instances of my voice trembling as I speak the words; but, overall, I sound fairly confident, and I'm proud of that.

And now Joey's the one sighing. "I was afraid this would come up. When you asked me out, I completely forgot that I had told Chandler about Kathy. I didn't remember until this morning."

"And . . . ?" I push.

"And . . . I'm really, really sorry," he apologizes. It's weird, but I believe him. He _does_ sound pretty sorry. "But I'm sure that doesn't change what I did."

Jeez. I wasn't expecting _this_ side of him. I mean, I know I just met him and everything, but I couldn't picture him before this very moment sounding so . . . mature. Or regretful. I'm almost finding it hard to be mad at him. _Almost_.

"Yeah, well, you're right in _that_ statement," I say bitterly. "It really doesn't change a thing."

I wasn't expecting this side of _myself_. I'm being rude and bitter, and I'm barely even stuttering!

"So, what does this mean?" he asks reluctantly. "Do you . . . want to break up?" There's a clear awkwardness to the question that I fully understand. It's hard to say that we could break up considering we're barely even together. I just met him, and we haven't even gone on any dates yet. Plus, there's that whole thing he _doesn't_ know—the thing about how I never wanted to be with him in the first place.

I know I'm being surprisingly casual about this when I shrug before replying. "I guess."

A long, uncomfortable silence fills the room. A minute passes. Two. By this point, I feel like just sitting here is driving me bonkers. I need to speak up now or else I might just go full-blown insane.

"Well, um . . . See you in school?" I groan inwardly at how lame it sounds, but I'll do anything right now just to get out of here.

"Yeah," he mumbles. "See ya'."

I stand up abruptly, no longer even attempting to look calm or normal. I force my wobbly legs to carry me out of Joey's dorm. I wander through the halls until I find my own abode. I unlock the door. My hand reaches for the doorknob, but I freeze right before my fingers make contact with the shiny metal. What if Monica's in there? She'll want to know how the confrontation went. She'll probably want to hear every little detail. Am I really in the mood to provide every little detail? Plus, what details are there to provide? I confronted him, he admitted to his mistake, and we ended it. That's all.

I shake my head vigorously to release these thoughts. I'm just acting crazy. I'm sure that if I tell Monica I don't want to talk about it, she'll understand.

I slowly turn the doorknob and throw the door open wide. The sight I find on the other side shocks me like an electrocution—without the death part, of course. Mere feet in front of me stand my two best friends. Monica's hands cling to Chandler's jacket, whereas his hands are positioned on her sides, as they press their lips together in a kiss.

I stand completely frozen in shock.

Well, at least this day wasn't too bad for _everybody_.

* * *

_I felt bad because I hadn't included any Mondler at all in quite a while. Well, Mondler's back!_

_I have a feeling the next chapter will be fun to write. You just gotta love Mondler._

_I just realized that I've never really written any Mondler before. Now, I'm kind of nervous. I don't want to mess this up. Mondler is such a perfect concept, and I'm gonna screw it up! I just know I will!_

_Well, wish me luck, guys. I'm off to write some Mondler!_

_Let's see how many more times I can write the word "Mondler" in this author's note._

_On a mildly related subject, I noticed that I managed to write the word "mere" three times in this chapter._


	11. More Detail

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_Ah. My first long chapter in quite a while. This is the length I was picturing all the chapters in this story being; meanwhile, they mostly wound up being about half this length—or even less than that._

_I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Let's see how well I do with writing Mondler; though, there really won't be too much Mondler in this chapter. Not that you can ever have too much Mondler._

* * *

I must have been standing there for a full minute before I can find my voice. The craziest part of all of this is the fact that neither Monica nor Chandler have noticed my presence in the room, even though I'm only a few feet away from them, and the sound of the door opening couldn't have been all too quiet.

"H—hey, guys. How's it going?" I say semi-casually despite my subtle stutter.

Their reactions are so hilarious, I almost let out a laugh. Chandler's head whips around to face me, and then he stays frozen like that. On the other hand, Monica turns slowly toward me. Both sets of eyes widen in what almost appears to be terror. I have to stifle a laugh.

I'm surprisingly enjoying this. A lot. I mean, of course I'm happy for them. I love the thought of the two of them together. But I really should be at least a little upset right now. After all the work I did trying to get them together, it was made pretty clear to me that it wouldn't happen any time soon, which leaves me wondering: What external force pushed them to be together? And why was this external force one _I_ could not seem to provide?

"Guys?" I ask after several long seconds of silence. I do my best to keep up my casual charade, acting as if I didn't just see what I know I saw.

Chandler is the first to speak. "W—well, hello there," he says with an awkward wave. "What— What are— What're you doing . . . here?"

Another laugh stifled. If I don't let out some of this built up laughter soon, these two might just kill me. "Well, this _is_ my dorm, you do realize?"

"R—right," he agrees, looking defeated. _Out of excuses?_ I wonder._ Already?_ "Then, I guess you're wondering w—what _I'm_ doing here."

I smirk. "Well, I have a _few_ ideas." With that statement, Chandler's face reddens slightly. I don't think I've ever seen him blush before. A small burst of laughter leaves me before I get it under control again. "But I'd honestly rather hear _you_ explain it."

"I really don't think that's necessary," Monica interjects.

"Oh, but _I_ think it is," I say confidently. When did this strange confidence come over me? Jeez, I break up with _one_ guy . . . "Okay, I'll make a deal with you guys. Mon, you can leave . . . as long as Chandler is prepared to give me _every little detail_," I say, putting strong emphasis on the last three words. I'm not really sure why exactly I'm making this deal. Probably because I'm sure I could get Monica's explanation if I really pushed her, but what I really want to hear is Chandler's perspective on what happened.

Monica gives an uncertain sideways glance to Chandler, who seems to be considering it. After a moment of thinking over their options, he shrugs. "It's a deal."

Monica's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "What?"

Another shrug from Chandler. Boy, is he being calm about this. "Go ahead," he says to her, gesturing toward the door. "I'll explain what happened."

Monica steals a glance at me before staring back at Chandler. "But she's going to make me explain it to her anyway—eventually," she states knowingly. "I really don't see the point of this."

"Oh, just give the poor girl what she wants," Chandler argues. "She's had a hard enough day already." I can't help but arch an eyebrow at that, but I ignore it for the moment.

"Fine," Monica gives in. "But, where am I supposed to go?"

"Central Perk?" I suggest. I reach into my pocket and pull out a five. I hand it to her. "Buy yourself a coffee or something. We'll meet up with you afterwards."

Still, she doesn't seem to like the idea, but she agrees nonetheless. Next thing I know, Monica's gone, Chandler's shifting from foot to foot in nervousness, and I'm waiting somewhat patiently for some form of an explanation.

"So?" I say suddenly, breaking the mild silence.

"So . . . what?" Chandler asks, giving me a look of confusion.

"So, explain. Please."

"Nice manners," he grumbles. He finds a seat on a nearby couch. I claim the seat next to him. "Okay, well, it's pretty simple. We came here, we talked for a bit, and then we . . . Well, you know the rest."

I cock an eyebrow, getting a bit impatient already. "I think I'm gonna need more detail than _that_."

He lets out a long, shaky sigh. "Okay, okay. I'll tell it from the beginning." He swallows before continuing. "It all started about half an hour ago when . . ."

_The final bell rang throughout the school, releasing the students back to their dorms. Any other day, Chandler would be in the mood to head to the coffeehouse with his friends; however, today, something was different. He knew one of his friends would not be able to make it, as she would be busy doing . . . possibly the last thing in this world she would ever want to do . . . with another one of his friends. Chandler couldn't help but feel bad for the prior of the two friends. All this distress, caused by some stupid game of _Truth or Dare_._

_He had managed to convince Monica that they should skip going to Central Perk. Neither was in the mood for going when they knew that two of their friends would be missing. They, instead, headed to Monica's dorm so they could hang out there and wait for their friend—being Monica's roommate, they figured she would probably head to the dorm after her . . . "conversation" with Joey._

_"I just feel so bad for her," Monica stated sadly, referring to her roommate and best friend's situation with being cheated on. "I mean, sure she didn't want to go out with him in the first place . . . but to have her first technical boyfriend cheat on her . . . and to have her first relationship last, like, a day . . . They never even had the chance to go out on a date!" She sighed from exhaustion, shaking her head. "When did it all get so complicated?"_

_"When did _what_ get so complicated?" Chandler questioned. "Joey?"_

_Monica couldn't help but let out a faint chuckle. "No, not Joey. I mean . . . relationships. When did they get so complicated?" She paused, hesitating, before she continued. "I never got around to telling you this, but . . . Kip and I broke up."_

_Chandler had already heard the news, but he wasn't sure if Monica knew he'd heard, so he acted surprised for his other friend's sake. It wasn't entirely clear to him how female friendships worked, but he was pretty sure they weren't supposed to tell people—especially boys—from outside the group the secrets they shared within the group. Monica might just tear their friend to shreds if she found out that her girl-friend had shared this delicate piece of information with Chandler._

Unexpectedly, the story is signaled to have ended with Chandler's words: "And you know the rest."

I cock an eyebrow. I know the rest? Really? I don't think so, Mr. Bing. I'm gonna need more than _that_. "Chandler?"

"Yeah?" he reluctantly replies.

"More detail," I request.

He sighs. "Right, okay." And the story continues. . . .

_"I'm so sorry," Chandler said comfortingly. And he meant it. Ever since first hearing that she and Kip had broken up, he'd wanted to be able to comfort her. He wondered why she hadn't told him before._

_"I just can't seem to find myself in one good relationship," Monica suddenly sobbed. To say he was shocked would be a huge understatement. Monica almost never showed such emotion. "Is there something wrong with me? Why can't I find a decent guy?"_

"And you know the rest," Chandler says again.

I stare at him like he's a complete idiot—and he might just be one. "My God, Chandler." I shake my head slowly from side to side. "Don't you ever learn?"

"Learn what?" He gives me a genuinely confused look.

"More . . . _detail!_" I practically scream at him.

Taken aback, he replies now with a trembling voice and wide eyes. "Okay, okay! Don't hurt me!" After taking a moment to calm himself, he continues. . . .

_Chandler wrapped his friend in his arms in a comforting hug. She happily returned the gentle squeeze._

_But there was a point in which the hug was going on a little longer than an average hug. In fact, the hug was almost a minute in when Chandler spoke up._

_"This is nice," he said softly._

_Monica pulled back slightly—though, she was still being held in his arms—so that he could see her face. She was smiling—actually _smiling_. "I know," she said blissfully. "It is, isn't it?"_

Chandler hesitates before saying his next words. "And . . . you know, um . . . You know the rest."

I clench my fists so hard, it hurts. "Chandler, I swear, you _want_ me to hurt you, don't you?"

"I'm serious this time, though!" he exclaims as he jumps up from his seat on the couch, adding to the emphasis on his words. "You actually _do_ know the rest."

"I really don't think I do," I say, shaking my head. "I'm not quite understanding how you transitioned from _'This is nice'_ to an all-out make-out session."

"It was not a make—," he begins, only to cut himself off. "You know what? Fine. I'll explain the rest. But there really isn't much left to explain. We hugged, we talked for a bit, and then we just . . . kissed."

Doubtfully, I ask, "That's it?"

"That's it," he confirms.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Okay, fine." That sounded a bit melodramatic. I force a brighter tone to come over myself as I change the subject. "Well, this is great! You and Monica getting together, I mean."

"Wait, what?" Chandler asks in a panicky voice. "Together? W—we're _together_ now?"

I give him a confused look. "Um . . . _yeah_, kinda. You _did_ kiss her, right?"

He scratches the back of his neck in an awkward manner. "Yeah, but I figured it was just an 'in-the-moment' kind of thing."

Now it's _my_ turn to jump up in negative excitement. "What?" I shake my head several times before saying more. "No, no, no. This can't be happening." I pace around, staring down at my shoes. Then, I suddenly snap my attention back up at Chandler. "Tell me this isn't happening. Don't let this happen!"

He seems taken aback by my crazed outbursts. "_What_? Don't let _what_ happen?"

"Don't . . . don't let this be a one-time thing," I command him. "I mean, just the thought of it is ridiculous. She likes _you_. You like _her_. You two are supposed to be together!"

He does a sort of panicky jump thing with my last statement. "W—what? _Supposed_ to be together? What are you talking about?" His voice wavers slightly as he speaks.

I mirror his confusion. He doesn't believe Monica is supposed to be with him? I know he can be a bit of a dork sometimes, but he's a dork in kind of a good way—at least, in a way _Monica_ seems to like. "I'm sorry, I . . . I just thought that you and Mon . . ." I trail off, not knowing what to say now. I just cannot believe this. They finally express their affection for each other, and that's _it_? He doesn't want to pursue this further? I force myself to form words as to continue the conversation. "If _Monica_ isn't supposed to be with you . . . than who _is_?" When I see him open his mouth to reply, I'm afraid he'll actually answer, not realizing that it's a rhetorical question.

His face scrunches up in bemusement. "Huh?" _Did he not hear me?_ I wonder. "What do you mean? _Nobody_ is supposed to be with me."

My God, Chandler! Does he _really_ think he's _that_ much of a loser? I mean, I always knew he had a low opinion of himself, but to believe that he'll never find _anyone_ . . . ? That's—honestly—just plain pathetic. "Chandler, I can't believe you actually think that's true." I force all the sympathy I can muster into that one sentence. I need to get this message across: Chandler will _not_ die alone. It breaks my heart just to think that he believes that.

He continues, throwing a decent supply of sarcasm into his next words. "Well, I'm _sorry_ if I don't believe in soul mates."

What? I'm too disoriented to even voice my bewilderment. I take several long seconds to digest what he has just said. Eventually, I realize the origin of the confusion between us during this conversation. It's not that Chandler doesn't believe that Monica is his soul mate; he just doesn't believe in soul mates _at all_. I shake my head in disappointment. There's no way this'll work well with Monica. Judging by her personality, I have no doubt that she believes in soul mates. The girl's been dreaming of marriage and parenthood ever since she was . . . in the womb, I suppose.

Monica was right. I _am_ going to need her to explain what happened, from _her_ perspective.

I need to go to the coffeehouse.

* * *

_Sorry for the late update. I try to update weekly, and the lazy part of my brain kept reminding me that the previous update came early, so I'm allowed to make this one late. I hate the lazy part of my brain, which just so happens to be the majority of my brain._

_Well, anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter._

_I don't think it'll be in the next chapter, but I will introduce some of the other characters from the show soon. Ross hasn't appeared once in this story, and I feel like I'm leaving him out. It just isn't __Friends__ without them all!_


	12. Monica's Side

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_I would also like to thank everybody who has followed, favorited, or has even just read this story. You guys are awesome, too! Sorry for only thanking the reviewers up to now. I guess I kind of forgot about the rest of you. I'll try to thank you guys, too, from now on._

_I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!_

_There's a little more Mondler in this chapter than the last, though they're still apart for the majority of the chapter. I know, I'm a horrible person. I've been keeping Monica and Chandler separate for so long in this story—which causes my character to have to run back and forth between them. But all this separation will be over soon, I assure you. It's not as much fun to write them apart as it is to write them together._

* * *

Eventually, the confusion between Chandler and me is sorted out, and he realizes what I meant by everything I said. When I ask him how he feels about Monica, he makes it clear that he would love to be with her, but he isn't sure how much of a chance he has of that happening.

I ponder this for a moment. I still find it ridiculous that he doesn't think he's good enough for her. She clearly likes him. Maybe I can help him see that. "Well, who kissed whom?" A look of realization comes over him, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. I can see the answer in his reaction. _Monica_ kissed _him_! An odd part of me is tempted to walk up to him, give him a slap on the back, and say "attaboy!" But then I realize that I'm not his father—or his "bro" —and that would be weird. Instead, I smile. "Well, there you go."

"So, what're you saying? I should ask her out?" He's clearly nervous at the thought, based on his mannerisms. "I don't know if I can do that."

Trying to reassure him, I formulate a plan. "If it helps, I can go talk to Monica to see how she feels about all of this and get _her_ side of the story."

In a slightly calmer tone, Chandler replies, "That would be nice."

I'm a bit surprised—and very much relieved—that he doesn't argue the idea. "Okay, I'll go do that. You can stay here if you'd like." I begin heading toward the door.

The last thing I hear before leaving are Chandler's words to me: "Actually, I think I'll be going back over to my dorm soon."

With that piece of information in mind, I open the door and step back into the hallway.

. . .

I enter Central Perk to immediately find Monica sitting on the big orange couch in the middle of the coffeehouse. I walk over to where she can see me, and she seems surprised to not see Chandler with me.

"Hey, Mon," I call to her as I approach the couch, eventually taking the seat next to hers.

"Hey. Where's Chandler?"

"Um . . ." I shift uncomfortably in my sitting position. "I kind of wanted to talk to you alone about something."

A slight look of concern crossed her features. "Okay. What is it?"

I decide to just say it. No use in stalling. "That kiss: what did it mean to you?" Monica looks very much confused, so I elaborate before she has a chance to reply. "Because, well, Chandler seems to be afraid that you don't think it means anything between you two."

She sighs. "I should've known this was coming. Well, except . . . I didn't think _you_ would be the one asking that question."

I let out a soft chuckle. "Well, you know how Chandler is."

She nods in understanding, then answers. "I guess . . . I guess I don't really _know_ what it means. I thought I didn't want to be in a new relationship just yet, but then that all changed when . . . Well, that was probably about the time you walked in on us, so you know what happened."

I find it a bit odd that neither party seems able to say the word "kiss" and would rather word their way around it. "I really don't see why the fact that you recently broke up with Kip would deter you from getting with Chandler now." I suddenly realize how strange this all is. I'm here giving relationship advice; meanwhile, I know absolutely _nothing_ about relationships. Since day one at this school, I've been running back and forth between Monica and Chandler, getting their individual perspectives. What makes me think I know how to get these two together when I can't even get someone for _myself_?

But Monica's soft, friendly smile forces away my reluctant thoughts. "I guess you're right," she says. "Scummy ol' Kip has nothing to do with this."

I can't help the smile that dominates my features. "Really?" I ask excitedly. "So, now what? Are you going to ask him out? I think you should ask him out!"

She gives me a concerned look. "Whoa, calm down! You sound like an excited puppy dog."

I laugh. "You still haven't answered my question," I point out. "Are you gonna try to get with him now? 'Cause, I mean, I'm sure _he's_ already on board with that idea."

She shrugs—surprisingly casually. "Yeah, I guess." A shy smile creases her lips. "I suppose I can do that."

"I suppose you can, too, if that helps," I offer.

She sends me a questionable stare. "Yeah," she says doubtfully. "That . . . _definitely_ helps."

I let out a soft chuckle. "We are _so_ weird." I stare down at the nonexistent watch on my left wrist. "Well, it sure is getting late. We should be going, then?"

Monica just stares at me like I've grown a second head. "You . . . you know there isn't _actually_ a watch there, right?" But she's smiling as she says it.

"Like I said before," I say casually as I stand up, "we are _so_ weird. Me, mostly."

She stands up, too, turning sharply to face me. "No, no, no. I'm definitely weirder than _you_." She points an accusing finger at me with her words.

I roll my eyes in response. "Can't you stop being competitive for _once_? I understand that winning is great and everything, but who says _this_ has to be a competition."

"_I_ say." She smirks.

Another eye-roll from me. "Yeah, okay, whatever. You're weirder. Can we go now?"

"Sure," she complies. "_Now_, we can."

And, with that, we head out.

. . .

The entire deafly silent walk back to our dorm, I can't get my mind off the predominant subject of _Mondler_. Because of _me_, they'll finally be getting together. Because of _me_!

I'm just so excited for them.

Pretty soon, we're standing outside the door to our dorm. I unlock the door and open it. The shock of finding Chandler unexpectantly on the other side causes me to jump in what could almost be considered terror.

"Sorry for the shock," Chandler says from the couch. He stands up and walks over to us. "I just needed to talk to Monica, and I figured you two would be coming back here. Mon, I need to ask you a question." He turns to me. "If you wouldn't mind, could you step outside?"

I do as asked without question, heading back through the still-open door. I close it behind me so that Monica and Chandler won't see my knowing smirk.

* * *

_I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. I rushed a bit to write it, so this really isn't my best work. Hopefully, it isn't _too_ terrible._

_I think the next chapter will lighten up on the drama. Also, a new character will be introduced. I'm pretty excited for it myself, if I'm to be honest. I mean, the more the merrier, right?_

_In case the ending wasn't clear enough, the question Chandler asks Monica should be clarified in the next chapter, though I think I made it fairly obvious._

_Until next time,  
Blunz_

_P.S. I don't know why I suddenly made this into the format of a letter. I guess I'm just a very strange person._

_P.P.S. Take care, guys!_


	13. Matchmaker

_I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

I decide to head back to Central Perk while Monica and Chandler "talk". Yeah, like that's _all_ they're doing. I have to give Chandler credit for that brave move he pulled by waiting in our dorm. I don't know what was going through Chandler's mind after I had left, but I can only imagine that he decided to no longer rely on the information I collect about Monica. He decided to just go for it, ask her out, and see how she replies. Luckily for him, I've managed to convince her to say yes. Once again, I'm so happy for the two of them. I don't think I could be happier.

I enter the coffeehouse and settle on the orange couch for the second time today. Pretty soon, I see Rachel approaching. I realize how strange it is that I didn't see her when I was in here before, but I push the thought away.

She gives me a sympathetic look that I can't quite understand. "Hey," she greets me in a sad voice. "How was it?"

I cock an eyebrow. "How was _what_?"

Now, I'm not the only confused one. "The thing with Joey. Was it terrible?"

My eyebrows shoot up. I completely forgot about that. With all this Mondler stuff going on, all thoughts of Joey managed to leave me. "Oh, the thing with Joey! Yeah, that was fine." I give a dismissive wave of my hand.

"Huh? It was . . . _fine_?" She wrinkles her nose in confusion. "What happened?"

I shrug. "Nothing important. But there's some good news you should hear." Right as I say those words, as if on cue, the door opens. A slight breeze blows into the coffeehouse, followed by Monica and Chandler—who are holding hands. I can't help but think they look so cute together. They seem to notice me at the same time and walk over, taking the two available seats on the couch. "Well, _that_ was fast," I comment.

They look at each other and smile. Chandler is the first to speak. "Well, there really wasn't much to discuss. We were both pretty much on board with the idea."

Phoebe's sudden voice draws the attention of all of us. "What's going on?" She sits in one of the nearby chairs.

Monica glances at Chandler before making the announcement. "We have some news."

Rachel cuts in with a statement of her one. "I'm taking my break now." She leans on the armrest of the orange couch. We all let out soft chuckles.

Monica continues. "Chandler and I . . . We're a couple now." She wears a beaming smile that only grows broader once the words are out.

Rachel, Phoebe, and I all give our congratulations. Phoebe comments that she predicted this, which makes me laugh as it's such a typical "Phoebe" thing to say. After all the congratulating is done, Monica stands up.

"I'm gonna get some coffee, and since Rachel is on her break, I'll go to the counter." Chandler offers to go with her, and they walk away together. Did I mention how cute they are?

Though, things aren't looking so great once they're gone. I turn my attention back to Phoebe and Rachel, only to notice that a sudden gloom has come over them. Phoebe sighs sadly as Rachel stares down at her hands. "Are you guys okay?" I ask softly. Oh, great. What could _possibly_ be wrong now? And why do I always have to jump at the opportunity to fix everybody else's problems? I've got problems of my own that need fixing. Sometimes, it's like I don't even care about myself. I would rather see others happy than be happy myself.

Okay, I'm definitely overeating to this too soon. I haven't even heard their reply yet.

Phoebe shrugs, though Rachel is the first to speak. "I don't mean to speak for Phoebe or anything, but I guess we're just . . . a bit jealous. At least, I know _I_ am."

"No, you're right, Rach," Phoebe says. "I'm kind of jealous, too, to be honest. I mean, I haven't had a boyfriend in . . . months. And I've never had a serious relationship."

_You're one to talk_, I think but don't say. It's just weird for me to hear someone else complain about not being in a relationship, considering my own circumstance. But I force myself to listen and care despite that fact.

"Yeah," Rachel continues. "_My_ last boyfriend . . . was Barry." Phoebe cringes, and I have a sudden desire to know every detail about this "Barry". But I refrain from asking. I can find out all about him later. It sounds like there's a story there.

"Really? Barry?" Phoebe asks, more sympathy in her words than surprise.

Rachel looks back down at her hands in embarrassment. "Yeah."

It hurts—physically hurts—me to see my two friends looking so sad. That's when I get an idea. "Well, maybe I can help you guys out."

I'm filled with such a wonderful feeling when I see both sets of eyes light up. Rachel is the one to voice their shared thought. "How?"

"What if I set you two up on some dates?" Oh, God. What am I saying? I can't find a decent guy for _myself_, yet I'm going to go searching for _two_ guys to date my friends? This has to be the dumbest idea I've ever thought up.

Clearly, Phoebe and Rachel don't feel that way, as they're soon voicing their love for the idea. "Oh, that would great!" Phoebe says in excitement. "You would really do that for us?" Crap. What did I get myself _into_?

Once again acting like the idiot I am, I reply, "Sure! Though, it could take a while for me to find the right guys, so we probably shouldn't set a date yet. We can discuss that with the guys once I pick them out for you two." Phoebe and Rachel agree with the idea and thank me.

I hate myself. I _really_ hate myself.

. . .

Over forty-eight hours of searching, and I still haven't found _one_ decent guy for either Rachel or Phoebe. This is a disaster.

Why? Why did I have to volunteer to play matchmaker for these two friends of mine? At least, when it was Monica and Chandler I was setting up, I knew who to go to and where to find them. Now, I'm just plain lost. Where do I go? Who do I talk to when I get there? What do I tell them?

Is this what it feels like to be stupid? Is this how Joey feels during the lectures in history class? I've never had any trouble in school, so I wouldn't know. Suddenly, I find myself feeling really bad for Joey. It's not like he chooses to be an idiot . . . right?

I throw my head into my hands. I'm currently sitting in Central Perk, surrounded by my friends, and I am completely zoned out from the conversations going on around me. I've always been more of a listener than a talker anyway, so they're probably used to me being silent like this. But, for once, I'm not even paying attention to them. It's like they're not even here. In fact, I'm not in the coffeehouse at all. I'm actually in an endless dark abyss of hopelessness.

Somehow, Chandler's voice manages to snap me out of the abyss. "So, apparently, I have a new roommate." I look up at him, confused by his words. Why would he have a new roommate when we're already a week into the school year? "Apparently, he's new to the school," Chandler continues. "Anyway, his name is Mike something, and he seems nice enough. I'm getting along with the guy so far."

Hmm. I wonder . . . What if I set Mike up with either Rachel or Phoebe? It must be the first good idea I've had in years. I'll have to wait until we all meet this Mike guy to see who he should be set up with—Pheebs or Rachel.

I think this might just work.

* * *

_Dang, I wrote this chapter fast. It only took me, like, an hour to write. I hope you guys enjoyed! The next chapter should be a little more interesting._


	14. Brotherly Visit

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_I officially have zero reviews for chapter twelve. That's . . . interesting._

_Well, anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. We have two special guests joining us this chapter. You guys probably already know who one of them is—as hinted by the last chapter—but the other is a surprise!_

* * *

I've now been searching for over seventy-two hours, and I've only managed to find one guy to set Rachel and Phoebe up with. I met Mike briefly in the hallway yesterday, and I'm not even sure who he should be set up with.

I sure know how to screw everything up, don't I? All I've been hearing for the past three days from Phoebe and Rachel is _"Have you picked out the guys yet?"_ or _"Are the dates set up yet?"_ Now, I've got my friends waiting for me. I don't think I can handle this kind of pressure. I need to find the second guy, and _fast_. I've almost stopped caring whether or not he's a decent guy. But there's still just enough caring left in me that stops me from finding any ol' guy off the street and setting him up with one of my friends.

But I need to find someone soon before Phoebe and Rachel start to suspect that I have no idea what I'm doing.

. . .

"I'm still deciding between some guys," I lie. "There are just so many great guys around here, and I want only the very best for you two." Lying through my teeth, and I don't even feel guilty about it. I'm a horrible person. Pretty soon, my friends will begin to see through my blatant lies. Four days straight of lying and saying that I have guys picked out for them, but that I can't choose who the best two are. In reality, I still only have Mike picked out. I still need to find another guy. I still don't even know which girl gets Mike and which gets whoever else I'll be choosing for them to date.

"Okay, that's fine," Rachel says. "But hurry up. I'm getting anxious." She's smiling with her words, so I know she's only teasing, but I can't help but feel a surge of guilt for keeping them waiting so long.

Just then, Monica and Chandler enter the coffeehouse, holding hands. Even though I've been seeing them as a couple for four days now, I still can't believe how cute they are together. How did I not notice before? They walk over to us and find seats around the coffee table. Chandler is the first to speak. "Hey, guys. What's up?"

Phoebe, Rachel, and I all exchange glances. I reply with a suspicious-sounding "Nothing." For whatever reason, the three of us decided that this whole thing with me setting them up on dates would be kept a secret from Monica and Chandler. I guess they're embarrassed about the idea of it. That's the only explanation I can think of. Whatever the reason, I respect the decision and won't tell either Monica or Chandler unless given permission some time in the future.

"Okay . . . then," Chandler replies doubtfully. Luckily, he doesn't question anything. Instead, he continues: "So, I was thinking, I don't have too much homework, and I'm kind of in the mood to watch a movie tonight. What do you say you guys all come over to my place, and we can watch a movie? Plus, that would give you two"—he turns to talk directly to Phoebe and Rachel—"a chance to meet my roommate, Mike. I asked him already, and he would be happy to see a movie tonight."

I'm on board with the idea for many reasons. For one, it would give me a better chance to assess who Mike would be better for, Phoebe or Rachel. And then there's the obvious reason: I love movies! I would happily watch a movie any day. "I'm in," I say.

"Well, I'm out," I hear Phoebe announce. I turn to face her, giving her a confused and disappointed look in a vain attempt to change her mind. "I'm not exactly a huge movie fan anymore. Not after seeing . . . the _truth_." She whispers the last word as if she were saying the name of some ancient prophecy. It makes it sound sacred and haunting.

"What truth?" Chandler asks, clearly confused.

Ignoring his questioning stare, I try to get Phoebe on board with the idea. It would be extremely helpful for me to decided who Mike should date if she were there along with Rachel. "We can find a movie with a happy ending, if that helps," I offer.

Phoebe sighs uncertainly. That's when Rachel jumps in. "Come on, Pheebs. It'll be fun!"

She seems to be thinking about it for several long seconds before she finally replies. "Okay, fine. But if I start to suspect that a pet's head is about to be blown off or a boy's alien best friend is getting ready to leave to go back to his home planet, I'm done. I can't handle any more sad endings."

Before Chandler can jump in with another question, I speak up again. "Maybe we should watch _It's a Wonderful Life_."

Rachel looks at me with wide eyes. "No, that's a terrible idea! That is the saddest movie _ever_!"

"What? _It's a Wonderful Life_ is the saddest movie ever? You're kidding me, right?" I scrunch up my face in confusion. "It's right in the title. It's a wonderful life. How can you go wrong with _that_?"

"It's not a wonderful life until the very end," Rachel argues. "Everything leading up until the end shows just how crappy of a life George has."

I sigh in frustration. This is turning out to be more work than I thought it would be. "Fine. Then, what do _you_ suggest we watch?"

"How about some plotless comedy?" she suggests.

"Huh," I say, impressed. "That might just work."

"Sounds fun," Monica adds.

After we all manage to agree on a movie—and after we finally explain Phoebe's situation to Chandler—we head off to his dorm. The five of us arrive in front of room 152. Chandler unlocks and opens the door. On the other side, sitting on a couch near the door, is a boy who looks to be around sixteen or seventeen. He has dark, curly, brown hair and a friendly smile.

"Let me guess," Phoebe says as she enters the dorm. "You're Mike?"

"Last I checked, yes," he replies. He stands up, and we all introduce ourselves. After some brief conversation, we learn that Mike plays piano.

"You do?" Phoebe asks. She smirks and says in a challenging voice, "Prove it."

Mike looks around, clearly puzzled. "There isn't a piano here."

"That wouldn't stand in the way of a true pianist," Phoebe points out, proving just how strange of a person she is. But Mike seems to enjoy the challenge. He stands up and—not even caring how about ridiculous he looks—plays "air piano" by banging on imaginary keys. It gives me, Monica, Chandler, and Rachel a good laugh, though Phoebe just seems plain impressed. "You are _really_ good!" she exclaims excitedly. "I play a little guitar myself."

"Really?" Mike asks, sounding interested. Well, I guess that decides that. Mike will be going out with Phoebe. I mean, he hasn't even said a _word_ to Rachel. He clearly likes Pheebs. They're so cute together, too. Not as cute as Mondler, of course, but still pretty cute.

"Uh-huh," Phoebe replies proudly.

"That's great. What kind of music do you play?"

"Well, like, acoustic folksy stuff, you know?" Well, that's _one_ way to describe it. Another way would be "crazy". Phoebe continues. "But right now I'm working on a couple _Iron Maiden_ covers."

Before either Chandler or I can make a comment, there's a knock at the door. The sudden sound of it makes me jump. Who am I kidding? All sounds make me jump. Confused, Chandler goes to answer it. He swings the door open wide and freezes at the sight before him. "Ross?"

In a flash, Monica is at the door. "Ross, what are you _doing_ here?" Her voice is laced with excitement, showing how glad she is to be seeing her brother. I get the sudden thought that we'll never get around to actually _watching_ this movie.

Pushing aside that stupid thought, I stand up and walk over to the door myself, needing to check to be sure this is for real. I don't know Ross super well, but this visit is definitely unexpected. "Hey, Ross," I say when I see him, still not believing this.

"Sorry, hold up," Rachel calls to us as she herself stands up and walks to the door. "Who's Ross?"

Ross gives her a shy wave when she's in sight of him. "That would be me. I'm, uh, Monica's brother."

"Well, maybe we should give Monica's brother some room so he can come in and join us," Rachel suggests. Chandler, Monica, and I move back to the couch and out of Ross's way. "We were just about to begin watching a movie. You like _Weekend at Bernie's_?"

Chandler chimes in before Ross can even reply. "Dead guy getting hit in the groin twenty, thirty times?"

Ross laughs. "Sure, I'll watch it with you guys." Chandler goes to set up the movie.

"Wait, you didn't answer my question," Monica interrupts. "What are you doing here?"

"What, I'm not allowed to come and visit my little sister at her new school?" he asks, sounding almost insulted.

"No, that's fine," Monica says. "Just . . . you could've called, at least. How long are you gonna be in town?"

"I can stay until tomorrow night or the next day," he replies. "I just felt bad that I haven't visited you yet, and I was nearby, so I figured I may as well come see how you guys are doing. So . . . who are all your friends?" His gaze falls on Phoebe, shifts to Mike, and then lingers on Rachel. That's when I get an idea.

Monica introduces everybody. "This is Rachel. She works at this coffee place we like to go to after school." She points to Phoebe. "And this is her friend, Phoebe, who plays guitar and sings _interesting_ songs at Central Perk—the coffee place."

"And I'm Mike, Chandler's roommate," the curly-haired boy cuts in.

"The movie's ready," Chandler announces, cutting into the conversation. "Does anybody want popcorn before we begin?"

. . .

The movie was pretty good, funny, whatever. Who am I kidding? I was barely even paying attention. I was too busy thinking over my oh-so-genius idea. I'll set Mike up with Phoebe, and Ross up with Rachel. It's perfect. Mike and Phoebe both seem so crazy and great together. And Ross . . . I think I caught him staring at Rachel a few times throughout the movie. I guess I wasn't the only one not paying attention to _Weekend at Bernie's_.

"Well, I think I'm gonna head back to Central Perk now," Rachel announces to nobody in particular. She stands up, the action then copied by Phoebe.

"Yeah, same here," Pheebs says. That's when I remember—how could I have forgotten?—that whole thing with my suspicions that she's homeless. What is _wrong_ with me? How in the world did I forget? I'm a terrible person.

Well, it's not really all that late yet. Maybe there's something I can do, for tonight at least. I quickly develop a plan. Yes, it's perfect. Absolute perfection.

And . . . now I'm rambling like a crazy person. Great.

After an announcement from Monica that she'll be crashing in our dorm for the rest of the night, I know it's time to put my plan into action. "Pheebs, Rach: You guys go ahead; I'll meet you at the coffeehouse in—let's say—ten, fifteen minutes?"

They agree with the plan and leave for Central Perk. Chandler decides to walk Monica back to her dorm, which I think is adorable considering she only lives a few dorms away. Though, I know the real reason he does so. He probably wants some alone time with her, and they haven't even told Monica's brother about . . . _them_ yet. Ross still thinks that they're just friends. I wonder when they plan on telling him. I can understand the hesitation, though. Chandler is his best friend, and Monica is his little sister. If I were them, I would be scared to tell him, too. I can only imagine how Ross is going to react when he finds out that his best friend is going out with his little sister.

Boy, I get distracted easily. Back to the plan. Rach and Pheebs are gone; Monica and Chandler are gone. That leaves just me, Mike, and Ross. Perfect. Everything is going according to plan.

"Well, I better get going, too," Ross says.

"Wait, before you go," I begin, getting his attention, "I was hoping you two could . . . help me out with something."

They both give me confused looks, and Ross is the one to speak. "Sure. What is it?"

"Well, you see . . . I kind of promised some friends of mine that I would, um, set them up on some dates. These friends, well, they're the friends you both met for the first time tonight: Rachel and Phoebe." I give that a moment to sink in.

"So, you want us to—," Ross begins, but I interrupt him.

"If you wouldn't mind, would you two be willing to go out with my friends, Phoebe and Rachel?"

Mike nods. "I think I can do that." He smirks.

"And you, Ross?" I ask with the slightest tilt of my head.

Shyly, he replies, "Can I be set up with Rachel?"

"Yeah, can he?" Mike adds.

I smile. "Of course."

. . .

Oh, how I love when things go according to plan! I'm so joyful right now, I practically _skip_ my way down to Central Perk. I frolic past customers and over to the orange couch in the middle of the room where Phoebe and Rachel are sitting. I once again wonder how Waitress Girl gets away with almost never actually working.

Huh, I haven't used _that_ nickname for her in a while. I kind of missed it. It's like an old friend.

What am I saying? I really _am_ insane, aren't I?

Phoebe stops her conversation with Rachel when she sees me approaching. "Oh, hi!" she calls to me.

Once I reach the couch, I sit in one of the nearby chairs. "Hey."

"We were just talking about you," Rachel states.

I raise my eyebrows at that. "How so?"

"Well, not to sound pushy or anything, but . . ." She pauses before continuing. "About those dates you were planning to set us up on . . ."

"Actually, that's exactly what I came here to talk to you about," I say proudly. Both sets of eyes before me glint with interest in what I'm about to say. "The dates are set up." A rush of questions come at me. When? Where? With whom?

Well, they didn't use the word _"whom"_, but I'm passionate about grammar, so I changed it in my head. Okay, maybe _"passionate" _is a creepy word to use in this case.

"When? Tonight," I answer. "Where? Right here, in the coffeehouse. In fact, they should be here any minute, so I should be leaving now." I stand up, but Rachel grabs my arm to stop me before I take off. "What?" I ask.

"Who did you set us up with?" she asks, staring up at me. I drop back down into my seat with a sigh. She looks worried—most likely because of the sigh. I smirk to relax her. Come on, I'm a teenager; I'm _always_ sighing! It doesn't necessarily mean anything bad.

"Phoebe, I set you up with Chandler's roommate, Mike."

She grins wildly. "Oh, yay! Thank you, thank you!"

"And, Rachel: I set you up with . . . Ross." I'm a bit more hesitant to say this one, as this one is a bit more risky. Mike and Phoebe both clearly showed interest in each other; however, only _Ross_ showed interest in _Rachel_—no "vice versa" there.

Her excited expression drops. "Monica's _geeky_ older brother?"

Oh, great. "But . . . he's sweet. And smart." How in the world did she figure out that he's a geek _already_? She's only known him for, like, two hours.

"Then _you_ go out with him!" She sighs—an actual _sad_ sigh, unlike mine. "Phoebe gets Mike, and I get . . . _Ross_."

"You have an awfully bitter opinion of him for someone who's only known him for a couple hours," I point out. "Come on, just give the guy a chance."

Another sigh. "Okay, fine. I'll give him a _chance_. He better be as sweet and smart as you say, though. Otherwise, there won't be a second date."

"Trust me, Rach. You'll like this one," I say. "I just . . . have _feeling_ about you two."

"Well, now you sound like Pheebs," Rachel points out. I laugh.

I'm so caught up with the conversation, I almost forget about the plan. "Oh, by the way, do you guys want to come over to my dorm for another sleepover tonight, after the dates?"

"As long as there's no _Truth or Dare_ this time," Rachel says.

"Oh, believe me: there will be _none_ of that," I reply with a smirk.

"Okay, sure. What about you, Pheebs?" she asks, turning to Phoebe.

"Sure! Sounds fun!" she responds happily. "We can gossip about how the dates went."

"Now, it _really_ sounds fun," I joke. Just then, the sound of a door opening fills the air. I look over to the entrance to the coffeehouse to see Ross and Mike entering. Dang. They're a little early. I'm not supposed to be here. "Well, gotta go. Enjoy your dates." I jump up and run out of the restaurant without looking back, not even giving so much as a _"hello"_ to the boys as I pass them.

Once I'm outside, I stop and lean against the side of the building—making sure not to be in view from inside through a window. I smile to myself. Although Rachel seems hesitant about going out with Ross, I truly _do_ have a feeling about the two of them.

I can only hope this date will go well.

* * *

_I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Dang, this was a long chapter._

_The next chapter will have the sleepover, and I'll probably have another special guest joining the story. I think this one will be pretty unexpected. Don't worry; it's not Janice. She comes later._

_At least, that's the plan. We'll see how things go._


	15. Gossip and Small Secrets

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_Okay, I lied. There's no special guest in this chapter. This chapter turned out to be much longer than expected, so I broke it up into two chapters. The guest will be arriving in the next chapter. Sorry for lying._

_Lately, I've been listening to a lot of songs by The Rembrandts. Because, as it turns out, they have songs other than "I'll Be There for You". Shocker, I know. They really were a bit of a one-hit wonder with that song, weren't they?_

_Well, anyway, on with the story. I hope you guys enjoy!_

* * *

When I enter my dorm, I'm met by Monica's questioning stare.

"Well, _that_ sure was a quick visit to the coffeehouse," she comments.

I stare down at my wrist before remembering that I don't wear a watch. I check the wall clock and realize that I had only been gone fifteen minutes at the most, which was mostly due to the walk there and back. "Oh, yeah, well . . . I just needed to talk to Rachel and Pheebs about something. It didn't take too long." I bite my lip before continuing. "By the way, is it okay if we have another sleepover here tonight?"

I see realization dawn on Monica's facial expression. "Oh, crap! I completely forgot about Phoebe's situation. Stupid Chandler, occupying my every thought and making me forget."

I can't help but laugh at that. Is _that_ what being in a relationship is like? I mean, I've heard that love makes you stupid. . . . "Yeah, well, to be honest, I forgot, too. So, it's okay if we have a sleepover?"

"Yeah, sure. Heck, it might finally give me a chance to talk about Chandler." She smiles at the thought.

"Yay, gossip! How are you two doing, by the way?" I ask curiously.

"Hey," she reprimands. "You wait until the sleepover like Rachel and Phoebe will have to, you impatient little . . ." She lets her voice trail off, which I'm grateful for, as I really don't need to know what that last word was going to be.

. . .

It's not until at least a couple hours later that we hear a knock on the door. I'm already anxious to hear all the gossip—whether it be about Chandler, Ross, or Mike; I'm not picky; I'll listen to any of it—so, I run to the door and throw it open in excitement. On the other side stand Rachel and Phoebe—no surprise that the latter carries her guitar case with her. Rachel, on the other hand, has a grocery bag filled with all her stuff, just like last time. I can't help voicing the question that's on my mind.

"How in the _world_ do you manage to fit clothing, a blanket, _and_ a guitar in that case?" I regret asking the question the moment it leaves my mouth.

But Phoebe smiles in reply. "Oh, well, you see, I bought a case _way_ bigger than the guitar so I could fit all this other stuff in here." Her eyes fill suddenly with realization, as if she just realized that she said something she shouldn't have. "F—for convenience, you know?"

"Yeah, um . . . ," I trail off. "Anyway . . . Come on in, guys! You know I just _have_ to hear how your dates went."

"Dates?" Monica questions from her spot on the couch.

Oh, crap. I almost forgot that she's here. "Yeah, um . . . They had these dates tonight." _Don't lie_, I tell myself. _Just . . . don't tell the truth either._ I'm still supposed to keep this whole thing a secret. Dang.

"Oh," Monica says in reply. "Well, who with? What're they like? I think tonight is supposed to be 'Gossip Night', so spill. Every detail." She grins wildly, overjoyed at the idea of hearing some good gossip.

Phoebe is the first to respond. "I went out with Chandler's roommate, Mike."

"Really?" Monica asks, surprised. "Well, now that I think about it, you two _did_ seem to show interest in each other earlier. What about _you_, Rach? Who'd _you_ go out with tonight?"

Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Oh, crap. I really didn't think this through, did I?

The realization dawns on Rachel just moments after me. "I, uh . . . I went out with your . . ." After that, she mumbles something unintelligible.

"What?" Monica asks, not hearing her.

"Your . . . brother," Rachel finally gets out. She winces, fearful of how Mon will react.

Monica's eyes widen in surprise. "My brother? Ross?"

_Yeah, that's the one._

_No, your _other_ brother._

I stop myself before I make either comment. Rachel nods.

The next thing that happens comes as quite a shock. Monica smiles—a real, genuine, _friendly_ smile. "So, how did it go?"

"What?" Rachel says, clearly confused. "You—you're not _mad_ or _surprised_ or _anything_?"

"No, of course not," Monica says with another smile. "This is . . . This is great! So, how did it go? Please tell me it went well."

Rachel returns her smile. "It was wonderful." I feel my hopes lift with those three words. _Success!_ "After chatting for a bit in Central Perk, he took me to this museum. At first, I thought it was going to be the most boring thing ever, but it turned out to be really fun. Ross was telling me all these interesting facts about the stuff we saw there, and he was making such dorky jokes about it all, and he was so funny. Afterwards, we went to see this show in the planetarium they have there, but apparently everything they tell you is really dumbed down so little kids can understand it, so Ross kept whispering really cool facts about space to me during the show." The look on her face shows that she's reliving the night and enjoying it all over again.

Monica's smile only broadens as she listens to Rachel retelling the events of the date. "Yeah, that sounds like my brother," she says. "Well, I'm glad to hear it went well."

Desperate to hear more good news, I turn to Phoebe. "So, Pheebs, how'd your date with Mike go?"

"Oh, it was great!" she says excitedly. "You know how he plays piano? Well, turns out, he works as a waiter at this karaoke bar. He wants to become the piano player there someday, which is why he's learning piano. So, anyway, he took me there tonight, and it was a lot of fun listening to all the drunk people who think they can sing." We all shared a good laugh at that.

"Hey, while we're on the subject of relationships," I say, moving the conversation along like the conversation-conductor I am, "Monica, how are you and Chandler doing?" I desperately need to hear _this_ gossip more than any other. Okay, maybe I'm a _little_ picky. It's just, I've known Monica and Chandler for so long, and I've been wanting to see them together for quite a while now.

She smiles, and I know she knew this was coming. "How are we doing, you ask? Let me put it _this_ way: I cannot express in words just how happy being with Chandler has made me." I can't help the outrageously broad smile that takes over my features. Apparently, "matchmaker" is actually a very fit title for me. It seems I'm pretty good at my job. I love when I'm good at things! Monica continues: "I didn't even know this level of happiness could exist."

"Neither did I!" I exclaim before I even realize the words are coming out of my mouth. I look around at the confused stares directed at me. "I mean, um . . . I'm really happy for you, Monica. And you, Pheebs. And Rachel. I'm just so darn happy right now!"

Rachel replies with "Do you have any idea how happy it makes _us_ that you've done all this for us? All this work to set _us_ up with guys, when you don't even have someone for _yourself_. I can't thank you enough."

I raise my eyebrows at that. "Seriously?"

She smiles a friendly smile. "Seriously. You were completely right about Ross and me. Sure, he's a bit of a dork, but it's kind of cute . . . in a way." She chuckles.

Monica gives us a confused look. Speaking directly to me, she says, "You set them up on their dates?"

Dammit! I completely forgot she didn't know. And I wasn't supposed to tell. Wait, I didn't. I didn't tell. Rachel did. _Rachel_ did! So, I'm okay.

I take a deep, calming breath at this realization.

Rachel and Phoebe share a look, both of them realizing simultaneously what I just realized. Rachel is the one to explain the situation to Monica. "Yeah, she kind of helped us find the right guys."

"Oh. Okay," Monica replies oh-so-casually. Remind me again, why did Phoebe and Rachel want to keep this a secret? Jeez, Monica takes news well.

Quickly moving on, Rachel continues to thank me for my help. Pretty soon, Phoebe and Monica join in.

"And if _you_ ever need help finding someone," Monica offers, "we're here for you."

"No, that's alright," I say. "I think, for now, I'm happy just being with my friends." I smile when I realize it's true. I'm happy. I'm really, _really_ happy.

. . .

Since we can't play _Truth or Dare_, we decided to come up with our own version—a version that lacks the _Dare_ part of the game. I call it _Small Secrets_. It's kind of lame in comparison to _Truth or Dare_, but it's still kind of fun to play, I suppose. Basically, we just go around the circle and share a _minor_ secret of ours. We don't have to say anything too drastic. For example, I just did my turn where I admitted that I can never remember that I don't wear a watch and that I desperately want and need one. I used to wear one, so I'm used to looking down at my wrist for the time.

Now, it's Monica's turn. She's thinking . . . thinking . . . thinking . . .

"Okay, I've got it," she finally says. "I've had my children's names picked out for the past two years." Phoebe and Rachel both audibly gasp in surprise. I simply scoff.

"So _what_?" I say dismissively. "I've had my children's names picked out since I was three." Wait, is that right? Or was it four . . . or five? I don't remember.

Phoebe looks to be in absolute shock, like she might have a heart attack any moment. "Are you— Are you _kidding_?"

"Let's just say I'm a bit of a forward-thinker," I reply with a smirk. I turn to speak to Monica. "So, what are they? The names, I mean."

She hesitates slightly before answering the question, looking embarrassed to be doing so. "Emma for a girl," she says. "And . . . Daniel for a boy."

My eyes widen. "No kidding? For me, I chose Anna—which is similar to Emma—and David—similar to Daniel . . . kinda." I let out a chuckle with that last word. "They almost sound like twin names: Anna and Emma, and David and Daniel. If I ever have twins . . . can I steal one of your names?"

Monica laughs. "Hey, if it means that much to you, go ahead, Miss Forward-Thinker."

"Well, Rach, it's your turn," I say, moving the game along. "What minuscule secret are you keeping from us?"

She forms a lopsided, nervous smile. "I guess my secret is . . . I'm totally gonna steal the name Emma." We all laugh, though I'm secretly hoping she's kidding. I've taken a very sudden liking to the name combination of Anna and Emma. David and Daniel, too. Dang, I hope I have twins someday. Rachel continues, "Seriously, Mon. That was a nice pick. I think I'm in love with the name now."

A fleeting image crosses my mind of Monica, Rachel, and myself all as mothers. Monica has her son, Daniel, and daughter, Emma; Rachel has her own daughter named Emma; meanwhile, I have quadruplets Anna, Emma, Daniel, and David. The three Emmas, two Daniels, David, and Anna are all playing together as best friends. I laugh at the absurdity of the thought.

"Okay, my turn! My turn!" Phoebe exclaims. "Since we're on the subject of names, I want to name my children . . . Sophie and Mike Junior. Sorry, I don't want to name my daughter Emma, too." Another round of laughter.

"I see _someone_ likes her boyfriend," I comment. It's nice to see I'm not the _only_ forward-thinker.

* * *

_I know it's a bit of a weird ending, but that's what happens when I break a chapter in two._

_Well, I hope you guys enjoyed._

_If you want to know who the special guest will be, here's a hint: There will be a _lot_ of stuttering in the next chapter._


	16. The Scientist Guy

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!_

_I, personally, have mixed feelings about the plot of it. I've heard that it's frowned upon for the main character of self-insert stories to date one of the canon characters of the fanfiction they're writing. I sort of did this with this chapter._

_Well, not really._

_Well, kind of._

_Well, actually, I didn't. Technically._

_You'll see what I mean. Hopefully, this chapter will still be good despite all the frowned-upon stuff I've done to it. I was so terrified that the whole thing with Joey would be frowned upon that I made him cheat just to push him out of the story._

_Speaking of Joey, I will hopefully be bringing him back into the story soon. It's just not __Friends__ without them all._

* * *

The sleepover was a blast! _Way_ better than the last one. No crying fest, no horrible dares, no lies from mothers about movie endings. What more could a girl ask for? In fact, there's another sleepover planned for tonight, and I'm excited—actually _excited_. When was the last time I was excited for something?

No, don't answer that.

Well, actually, I was pretty excited to come to boarding school. And that was . . . _fairly_ recent.

That's right: I answered it. Ha!

Oh, _wonderful_. I'm talking to myself. Again. That's gotta be the twentieth time this week, at least.

I push all thoughts aside as I take a sip of my horribly bitter coffee—I hate coffee so much—and watch as Phoebe prepares to play a song. Rachel approaches the microphone and speaks into it.

"Ladies and gentlemen, back by popular demand, Miss Phoebe Buffay," she announces before walking back over to the couch and sitting with us. Seriously, does she _ever_ actually work?

Phoebe takes the microphone and begins to sing. "_I'm in the shower, and I'm writing a song. Stop me if you've heard it._" I let out a soft chuckle. Very suddenly, I realize that—as far as I know—this is the first song she's ever played in front of Mike. I wonder what he'll think of her style. I look over at him to find him smiling, which I guess is a good sign. Phoebe continues: "_My skin is soapy, and my hair is wet. And 'Tegrin' spelled backward is 'Nirget.'" _Oh, boy. Phoebe sure is an _interesting_ one.

Just then, I hear some voices from a table on the other side of the room. At the table sit two teenage boys, both with glasses. Both speaking _very_ loudly. Phoebe appears to notice them, too. Oh, great. Their obnoxiously noisy conversation is distracting her from playing. Okay, now, that's just not nice. I stand up abruptly and march over to the noisy boys' table.

"_Lather, rinse, repeat_," Phoebe sings in the background, though I'm barely listening to her song now.

When I get close enough for the noisy boys to hear me, I whisper, "Excuse me?" Darn my obsessive politeness.

The darker-haired boy looks up at me and replies, "Yes? Is ev— Is everything all right?"

Trying not to let too much anger show, I explain, "Yeah, it's just . . . you two are talking, well, kind of . . . loudly."

An apologetic look comes over him, and suddenly I feel terrible. I guilt easily, so I can't help it. "Oh. I—I'm sorry. I apologize," he says in a significantly quieter voice. "We were just— We were talking about—"

"She doesn't need to know that," the boy with the lighter hair interrupts, making no attempt at lowering his voice.

"I suppose— I guess you're right, she does not," Dark Hair agrees. I cock an eyebrow at that, wondering what they possibly could've been talking about, but I push the thought away when he continues: "My—my name is David, by the way. And my friend— His name is Max."

I smile, glad we're suddenly on more friendly terms, and introduce myself. I then say, "Well, it was nice meeting you, David, Max."

"Yes, you also," David agrees.

Hmm . . . I know their names. They know mine. I wonder if I'll ever see them again. "So . . . do you think there's any chance you two'll be here again tomorrow?"

"I believe there's a chance of that, yes," David says, seeming more willing to speak to me than his friend.

Another smile creases my lips at the thought of seeing this guy again. And Max, too, I suppose. "Great. I'll see you tomorrow, then." I wave goodbye and walk back over to my friends just as Phoebe finishes her song, looking much more comfortable without the noisy distraction.

"_And lather, rinse, repeat . . . as needed._"

I reach the couch full of my friends—Monica, Chandler, Rachel, Mike, and Ross—just as Phoebe does the same. Before speaking to anyone else, Phoebe turns to me with a beaming smile on her face.

"I just wanted to thank you for shutting those noisy boys up," she says.

I form a lopsided grin. "Yeah, about that . . ."

By this point, the rest of the gang is listening in on the conversation. Phoebe gives me a confused look and asks, "What is it?"

"Well, as it turns out," I reply, "David—one of the 'noisy boys'—is actually really nice. I'm not so sure about his friend, Max, though. But David: he was very apologetic about it."

"Well, he should be apologetic about it!" Phoebe exclaims. "He and his buddy, _Max_"—the name comes out of her mouth like venom—"were very distracting. It was like they didn't even care that I was trying to perform just a moment ago."

For whatever reason, I feel the need to argue David's case. Once again, I'm not so sure about Max. But _David_ is a good guy. "Yeah, but David seems really sweet and very sorry. Come on. The least you can do is forgive him."

Chandler just has to jump in right at that moment with a comment. "What, do you have a _crush_ on this guy or something?" He laughs at his own wit.

Just then, I realize that I kind of do. His glasses and heavy stutter are both very cute qualities. I also got the sense from him that he's fairly smart. Oh, how I love the smart guys. For some reason, that thought makes me think of Joey. "No—no, I don't," I say lamely. "I mean . . . I don't know. Maybe . . . Okay, fine. I do. I have a crush on him." Wow. Without even saying anything, Chandler got me to admit it. How _does_ he do it?

"Well . . . ?" Chandler prompts.

"Well . . . what?" I ask, confused.

"Aren't you going to _do_ anything about it?"

"Oh. Right," I say. "Well . . . I guess not." I shrug before flopping down onto a couch cushion. "I'm not really the 'pursuing' type when it comes to cute boys." Oh, dear God. Did I just call him _"cute"_ out loud? I feel my face flush red from embarrassment. Yup, I _definitely_ get embarrassed too easily. But, to be fair, I have light skin, so I naturally blush easily. Ah, the natural curses of being a ginger.

"Oh, come on!" Chandler encourages. "Go for it. What do you have to lose?"

I give him a skeptical look. Chandler is probably the last person I would expect to encourage somebody to pursue someone they like. "I don't know," I say, still unsure.

That's when Phoebe jumps in. "Wait, you _can't_ go out with him!" she exclaims proudly, sounding like how a scientist might shout _"eureka!"_ Is she _trying_ to stop me from going out with this guy? Because she seems pretty darn happy at the thought of me _not_.

I give her a confused—and slightly offended—look. "Why's that?"

"Didn't you say you wanted to name your future son David?" she points out.

I hate to admit, I find it a bit embarrassing to have the guys hearing this. This was a girls-only secret. "Yeah . . . after his father," I argue. "I'm supposed to meet a smart science nerd named David, fall in love with him, and have two kids with him: Anna and David Junior." Hmm . . . I wonder if David likes science. I sure hope so.

Phoebe gasps in horror and surprise. "You really _are_ a forward-thinker!"

Little does she know that I have _way_ more planned for my future than just the names of my husband and kids. But I don't dare say more on the subject. Instead I make a decision. "You know what? I'm gonna go for it. I have a good feeling about this guy—"

"I have a _terrible_ feeling about him," Phoebe interrupts, but I ignore her and continue.

"—so . . . here I go." Just as I get up to go talk to David, I see him and Max heading for the door. They walk out of Central Perk, leaving me standing there, frozen in shock. Damn, this is some horrible timing. I fall back down into my seat in despair. Then, I remember. "Well, at least he'll be here tomorrow."

. . .

The next day, I can't wait for school to be over—a rare feeling for me. I'm just excited to go to Central Perk today and see David again. I already miss him. Every time today that I saw somebody with glasses or heard someone stutter, I thought of him.

How pathetic is _that_?

Finally, the last bell of the day rings. I begin packing up my math supplies, which takes a while for a couple reasons. For one, I have a more organized backpack than _Monica_, and that's saying something. The other reason is because I'm, well, a huge nerd, and I have several different calculators, all different kinds of paper—wide-ruled, college-ruled, graph, copy—that I take out at the beginning of class since I never know which kind I'll need, different sized pencils for different purposes, and lots and lots of notes. All this stuff takes _forever_ to pack up, especially since I can't just throw everything into my backpack and leave. Everything has its own special place in its own special folder or compartment. Even the folders and notebooks have to go back in a certain order. It's a wonder how I don't arrive late for every class. That's actually one of my worst fears, arriving late to class. I've had _plenty_ of nightmares about it.

I'm not even halfway packed up by the time everybody else has already left the room. I remember, back at my old school, I would always miss the bus at the end of the day. At least, at this school, I live _in_ the school, so there isn't as much of a hurry. And the coffee place is really close by, too.

As I slide my pencils into their special little slots in the front-most compartment of my backpack, I hear the teacher's voice behind me, making me jump.

"Excuse me?" Ms. Kudrow calls out. "Could you help me grade some test papers?"

I spin around to face her. Do to my horrible inability to say no, I reply, "Oh, um . . . sure." Still, I want to get out of it. I'm still super excited to see David. "But do you _really_ want me grading my own paper?"

"Oh, come on," she says with a friendly smile. "Like there's any chance you didn't get a perfect score. That's actually the reason I'm asking for _your_ help in grading. You're probably my only student who actually knows the answers."

Really? I thought you asked for _my_ help because I'm the only student still here. There are some serious disadvantages to being the top student in the class. Other than the torment of the other students, of course. Finally, I reply, "Good point."

The math teacher continues: "I wouldn't even _need_ help if more students could get perfect scores. It's the _wrong_ answers that take time to grade. If only _every_ student could be like you."

"Yeah, but if _everybody_ was like me, I would have nobody to argue with," I joke, knowing that as teacher's pet, I can get away with saying almost anything. "And that would be a very sad and boring world. For _me_, anyway."

Ms. Kudrow laughs. We get to work grading the papers, and I try to grade as fast as I can, though it's difficult to concentrate when my thoughts keep drifting back to a certain guy.

. . .

I practically _run_ to the coffeehouse, overly excited to get there and talk to David. It's now been over twenty-four hours since I last spoke to him, and that thought drives me crazy.

I enter Central Perk and take a look around. When I don't see David—or even Max—I walk over to my friends. When they see me, they all give me sad, sympathetic looks. Well, except Phoebe. She looks . . . kind of neutral.

"Hey, who died?" I joke, walking up to the couch and taking a seat.

Monica is the first to reply. In what just _has_ to be the saddest voice I've ever heard, she states, "There's something . . . you should know."

I suddenly turn serious. "What is it?"

After several failed attempts at speaking, Monica finally says, "I can't tell her. Someone else do it for me."

"I'll tell her," Chandler offers. He swallows before speaking, his voice a croak. "David . . . is _gone_."

Taken aback by what he's saying—but, at the same time, confused by what he means—I ask, "What?"

In a somber voice, Chandler clarifies, "He left. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

* * *

_Okay, confusing ending, I know. But all will be explained in the next chapter._

_Speaking of explaining things, I would like to explain a couple things from this chapter. I know that in the original scene where Phoebe meets David on the show, she's singing the songs about her mother, but I had to change that here since the songs (at least the snowman one) pertain to Christmas, and this chapter takes place closer to summer or fall. The other thing I want to explain is the reason Phoebe appears not to like David all too much, whereas on the show she loves him. The reason for this is that Phoebe begins to like David on the show when he tells her what he was talking about with Max, but in this story, she never finds out that he was talking about her. So, to her, he's just a noisy guy._

_Oh, and while I'm explaining stuff, I may as well explain why I chose Kudrow for the math teacher's last name. As you all probably know by now, this story (or at least the first chapter of it) was based on a dream. Well, occasionally, I'll throw in elements of other dreams I've had. I have this kind of recurring dream where Lisa Kudrow is a substitute teacher at my school. It's one of my favorite dreams I've ever had, and the fact that I've had it multiple times makes it all the more amazing. Taking from that amazing dream, I decided that the teacher here would be Ms. Kudrow._

_Oh, I almost forgot: I hope you guys enjoyed!_


	17. David-less

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_Just a heads-up: This chapter deals with mental instability. I'm not sure if it's very clear in the writing itself toward the beginning, as the mentally unstable tend not to know that they're unstable, so it can be difficult to write from the perspective of someone who is and make it clear._

_Also, the story takes a very serious turn in this chapter. It's no longer happy rays of sunshine and frolicking through the flowers._

_Well, it wasn't before either, but you know what I mean._

_Despite some of the darker themes, I did try to bring some lighter scenes into this chapter, so you guys will still—hopefully—enjoy the read._

* * *

"What?" I ask again, not wanting to believe it, though I'm not exactly sure _what_ it is that I don't want to believe. I'm still very confused as to what's going on here.

Chandler begins to explain. "David came running in here, looking for you. Apparently, he and his friend received a letter that told them about the chance of a scholarship to a school in . . . well, in Russia."

"Russia?" Now, I'm even _more_ confused. Russia? _Russia_?

Chandler continues as if I didn't say anything. "He had to leave immediately for the flight there. He didn't really have the time to explain in much detail. He wanted to tell you in person, so he stopped by here, but—just a few minutes ago—his friend, Max, stormed in here and forced him to leave, afraid they would miss their flight."

All of a sudden, I feel sick to my stomach. "Just . . . a few _minutes_ ago? Oh, my God." If I had just graded a little faster, or if I had just said no to Ms. Kudrow . . . "Oh, my God," I repeat. I put my hands up to rest on my suddenly pounding head. I stand up and pace around for several minutes, nobody saying a word. At some point, I drop my hands down by my sides and turn sharply toward Chandler. "Russia?" He nods. I continue pacing. "Just a few minutes ago. Russia. Wanted to tell me in person. Max. Forced . . . _forced_ him to leave . . . for Russia." By this point, I'm just babbling like an idiot. It's almost like I'm trying to explain it to myself, like I can't quite comprehend the current situation. Once again, I say: "Russia." That seems to be the part I find the most unbelievable. Who applies for a scholarship in _Russia_? Of _all_ places? Well, maybe he didn't apply. Maybe he's just a genius, and Russia wanted him. Suddenly, I hate Russia with a passion. How _dare_Russia take David from me?

No, I shouldn't be mad at Russia. I don't blame him—him?—for wanting David. I mean, who _wouldn't_ want David? The person I should be mad at is Ms. Kudrow. It's all her fault . . . all her fault . . . It's all her fault that I didn't get to say goodbye to David. All her fault.

I drop very suddenly—and kind of painfully—onto an open chair I've paced my way toward. I'm still near enough to the couch to hear—and be heard by—my friends, in case anybody feels like striking up a conversation any time soon, though I doubt it. I bring my hands back up to my aching head and rub, trying to soothe away the pain. However, the throbbing only seems to intensify. No, not throbbing. It's a . . . _different_ feeling. Like . . . like my head is full of _bugs_, and they keep scurrying around inside . . . inside my _brain_.

All of a sudden, Monica is by my side, speaking to me. ". . . but we can cancel it, if need be."

"What?" I ask, having not heard the beginning of that statement. The sound of little bug legs _scurrying_ was too loud.

"The sleepover," she clarifies. "We can cancel, if you need us to."

"What? No," I say, shaking my head. "No, no, no. Don't cancel. I . . . I don't want to be alone tonight."

Monica smiles sweetly. "Well, of course you won't be alone. _I'll_ be there."

"Oh. Right," I say, remembering. We're roommates. "Sorry, I forgot." My tone is mellow, emotionless. Dry, even.

Monica's friendly smile droops into a frown of concern. "Are you okay?"

I let out a long, shaky breath. "No further questions, please." I stand up. Somehow, the conversation has made my headache more bearable. Or ignorable, anyway. "Well, let's get going to the sleepover, then. What are we waiting for?" I laugh at my own wit.

Monica expression goes from one of concern to one of fear. "It's not even nighttime yet. Sleepovers tend to take place at _night_."

"Oh. Right," I say, remembering. "Sorry, I forgot." I pause before adding, "Did I already say that?"

"Yeah . . . kinda," Monica replies.

"Huh," I say. "Well, in _that_ case . . . I'll be in the street."

With that, I turn on my heel and walk straight out of the coffee place.

. . .

About twenty minutes later, I find myself in an old, run-down pet store. They must be having a going-out-of-business sale because the prices in here are radically low. Everything costs zero dollars.

Wait, no. It's not a pet store. It's just a box. With a sign that reads "Free Kittens".

I reach into the box and pull out a chocolate-brown kitten. The feline has chocolate-brown eyes, too. Hmm . . . He kind of reminds me of . . .

"I'll take this one," I say, even though nobody is around to hear. I snuggle the kitten close and whisper in its ear, "I think I'll call you David."

. . .

I walk for another ten or fifteen minutes before I feel a hand lay gently on my shoulder. I don't jump; I wonder why. I spin around so that I'm face-to-face with my good friend—and roommate—Monica.

I smile and wave, holding cat-David with my free hand. "Hey, Mon!"

She points to the feline with wide eyes of terror. "What the _hell_ is that?"

I do my best to cover David's ears, which is difficult considering I'm still trying to hold him at the same time. "Sh," I shush her. "David might _hear_ you," I reprimand my friend.

Monica's eyebrows shoot up. "You named it _David_?" She shakes her head, her crystal blue eyes filled with concern. "This isn't healthy," she warns.

"Doesn't he look like a David, though?" I hold the cat up so Monica can see. She snatches David out of my hands and examines him.

"It's a girl," she says dully.

"What?" I ask, confused. I laugh. "No, he's not."

"_'He'_ doesn't have a— You know what? Forget it." She hands David back to me and exhales slowly in controlled frustration. "Look, I just came to make sure that you're okay. You seemed a little . . . _distant_ back at the coffeehouse." When I don't reply, she places her hand on my forehead. "Are you feeling all right? You might be sick."

I forcefully grab her wrist and shove her hand away. She lets out a small yelp of pain. "I'm fine!" I shout at her. "Let's just go get ready for the stupid sleepover tonight." All the anger I feel toward Monica vanishes instantly as I stare down at little David resting in my arms. "Hey, little guy," I greet him with the kind of voice that a young parent might use when talking to their baby. "You up for a sleepover tonight? Only girls are allowed, but I guess I can make an exception."

"Actually, _'David'_ is a—," Monica begins, but I ignore her and continue with what I was saying.

"Though, I must warn you: Phoebe might sing a song about a stinky cat, but don't worry. It's not about _you_." I sniff him to emphasize my point. "You smell _fantastic_!"

I hear Monica mutter, "Oh, brother."

I look around, trying to find Ross, but I don't see him. Now, I'm definitely confused. Didn't Monica just greet her brother? I will _never_ understand that girl. I swear, she's insane.

. . .

Soon after Rachel and Phoebe arrive for the sleepover, I excuse myself to the bathroom. But . . . I don't need to use the bathroom. When I enter the small room, I close and lock the door behind me, turn around, grab a small hand towel and—I'm a little ashamed to say—shed my tears into it.

I don't know why I'm crying. I have David. I should be happy. How could I _not_ be? I have David!

Maybe they're happy tears.

. . .

I wake up the next morning with a pounding headache and no memory of what occurred the night before. I know we had a sleepover, but that's only because I see Phoebe and Rachel sleeping nearby. I wonder where Monica is.

Oh, wait. Did I . . . ? No, I couldn't have. But . . . did I? Oh, no. I did, _didn't_ I? No, no, no! Please have been a dream! Please, oh, please!

I think . . . I went berserk yesterday.

All because I didn't get the chance to say goodbye to a guy I just met. I think I've officially hit a new low. Just when I thought I _finally_ found my lowest low . . .

I groan from the pain in my head. It feels like my head is being squeezed . . . by Khan Noonien Singh. And it also feels like there's a kid with a heavy sugar rush jumping on my head. And that kid . . . he's also _beating_ the very center of my forehead with a hammer. Doesn't this kid have any parental control?

Jeez. That sounds like a thought I would've had last night.

Let's see . . . Try to remember everything that happened yesterday. Try to remember . . .

Okay, it all started when I heard that David left. That's when the crazies started eating away at my sanity. And then . . . I ran out into the street—almost got hit by a car. Then, I remember something about a box . . . and a _lot_ of kittens.

Just then, I hear a soft "meow". I turn my head in the direction of the sound.

Oh, crap.

I bought . . . a _cat_? Oh, man. Monica must not be too happy with me right about now. Are we even _allowed_ to keep pets in our dorms?

Okay, keep thinking . . . keep remembering. . . .

My headache intensifies with the effort, but the blurry image of last night begins to clear. After the cat episode, Monica came to rescue me and bring me back to the dorm before Rach and Pheebs arrived. And that's when we had the sleepover. But . . . I can't seem to remember the sleepover at _all_. Maybe I just imagined it. I wouldn't be surprised.

A sudden voice cuts into my thoughts. "Hey, are you awake?"

Monica.

I feel a wave of guilt wash over me. Oh, God. What in the _world_ did I put Monica through last night? Hmm . . . let's see . . . For _one_, I bought a _cat_. Let's see what else I can come up with. Well, I also forced her to search the streets of New York to try to find me and haul me back to our dorm. Otherwise, who knows what trouble I would've gotten myself into. I could've gotten lost, robbed, killed . . . a million other terrible things. And, to top it all off, what kind of a performance did I perform during the sleepover? I know how much Monica loves to play hostess. To what extent did I ruin that experience for her last night?

Well, I'm just a _terrible_ person.

But I reply nonetheless. "Yeah, I'm awake." The effort of speaking makes the kid jump harder and smack the hammer down with significantly more force. Oh, and don't even get me _started _on Khan's squeezing.

Monica's voice is soft and soothing, actually _relieving_ the stress I feel on my skull instead of worsening it. "I brought you an ice pack." She moves to where she's within my line of sight—or her _feet_ are, anyway; I'm still lying down on my side . . . on the _floor_, apparently. She hands me the ice pack, and the cold makes my hands go almost instantly numb. I place it gently across my forehead, and I can already feel the numbing effect it has on the pain in my head. I let out a sigh of relief. Monica asks, still concerned, "Are you all right? I don't mean to push you if your heads hurts too much for you to talk, but what _happened_ last night?"

"I don't know," I mutter. "I don't even remember most of it."

"How much _do_ you remember?" she pushes. "Do you remember any of the 'going crazy' part of the day?"

I sigh—and this sigh is _not_ one of relief. "Whereas some people—when they experience trauma or hear news they _just _can't handle—choose to drink away their problems, I—instead—go bat-shit crazy; though, it appears to have the same morning-after effects." All of a sudden, something doesn't quite feel right. I jump out of bed and dash to the bathroom, throwing up in the sink before I can even reach the toilet. I guess this only emphasizes my point.

When I return to the main room, Monica adds, "Well, you _were_ acting pretty drunk last night."

"Not surprisingly," I grumble. If I could just _remember_ . . .

. . .

Monica is over at Chandler's, trying to explain to Ross that his best friend and little sister are now a couple. It's about time they tell him. That sure would be a difficult secret to keep for long, constantly having to sneak around just to be with each other.

Meanwhile, I'm cleaning up the dorm from the mess I made at the sleepover I don't remember having. I figured, it's the least I can do for Monica. After all she did for me yesterday when I was going crazy . . . Most of the mess _was_ made by me, after all.

But then, out of nowhere, a flashback dominates my thoughts.

_I was rambling, sounding legitimately insane. It's a wonder my friends didn't run screaming out of the dorm at some point during the course of the night. At some point, my crazed ramblings began to calm a bit. Eventually, I was calmed down enough to the point where I could tell a story._

_"I never told anyone about this before," I started in, easily gaining the attention of my friends, "but . . . my dad has a half brother. I've never met him. He was given up for adoption when his parents found out that he was . . . schizophrenic." Rachel, Phoebe, and Monica all gave me confused looks, clearly not understanding why I brought this up all of a sudden. I continued: "Do you know if schizophrenia is genetic?"_

I exhale slowly once the flashback has ended. I didn't even realize I was holding my breath during.

Okay, now I _definitely_ have to think over that flashback. Did I _really_ think I was schizophrenic? Just because I have a half-uncle who is, and I was acting a little odd? I just snapped. That was all. Maybe it was a panic attack or something. I don't know. I just know that I don't have schizophrenia. I think I would know by now if I had _that_.

Of course, if I'm just imagining all of this . . .

No, don't think like that. This is real. I know it. I just know it. It's a gut feeling, and I've learned that gut feelings should be trusted.

Okay, let's run through the options here. It could've been a panic attack, some sort of coping mechanism, maybe just some way of releasing built-up stress over various things. Yeah, maybe it was about more than just David. I highly doubt this guy I barely even know—I really only know his name and what he looks like—would be able to affect be that much just by _not_ being here.

Yeah, built-up stress. That _does_ sound surprisingly like something that would happen to me. Let's see what else surrounded this whole "David" thing.

Well, there was that anger I had toward my teacher . . . and partly toward _myself_ for not just saying no. And the fact that being the top student in my class doesn't have nearly enough benefits to counteract the disadvantages.

Yeah, I'm not crazy. I'm really not.

Did you hear that, Mom? I'm _not_ crazy!

. . . oh, crap.

Did I just . . . try to talk to my _mom_? Through my _mind_?

Okay, so, maybe I'm a _little_ crazy. I can handle that, right? A little crazy isn't bad, right? Right?

And now I'm crying.

Okay, _why_ am I crying? Why won't I stop crying? Stop crying! Stop!

I've lost control. I think I've officially lost it.

At that precise moment, the dorm door swings out into the hallway. I furiously try to wipe the tears away from my eyes, but they keep coming in a steady—seemingly unending—flow. The figure at the doorway only has to ask one question for me to know that all hope is lost.

"Hey, are you crying?"

* * *

_This is the most dramatic piece of writing I have ever written. Though, I think it only gets more dramatic (and more emotional) from here._

_I know there are parts of this chapter that may make it sound kind of humorous, but I strived to make this as accurate to the actions and thoughts of a mentally unstable person as I could. I know a surprisingly large amount about the way mentally unstable people act._

_This chapter probably seems really weird, especially the way it's set off so much from the other chapters. I hope I didn't ruin the fun of the story or whatever it was that drew people to this story. But the way my character acts in this chapter is in no way a permanent thing. It's just something that comes over her every once in a while—generally after receiving bad news or after experiencing trauma—and lasts for a short while. There will be a more detailed explanation later in the story._

_Well, anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter!_


	18. Too Many Davids

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_Hey, I got four reviews for the last chapter. Four! I think that's the most I've ever gotten. I generally only get two or three._

_Okay, I'm way too excited about this._

_I guess there were quite a lot of things to comment on in the last chapter. I'm not so sure that's a good thing._

_**Sweet Sugarrrush: **__The whole bugs scurrying in the brain thing was inspired by this thing in __The Kill Order__. There's a whole lot of going crazy in that book, and I remember the insane characters saying that they felt like there were bugs in their heads. It was kind of creepy . . . but kind of cool . . . but mostly creepy.  
Hmm . . . I miss that series. I'm rereading it, though. :D_

_By the way, in case anybody is wondering, the series I'm referring to is __The Maze Runner__ series. It's pretty much my favorite book series I've ever read, and I've read a lot of book series, so . . . yeah. I think it's pretty amazing, and I highly recommend it._

_I'm getting a bit off track. I'll just say my "signature" line now: I hope you guys enjoy!_

* * *

I finally look up at the figure standing in the doorway, but when my vision focuses through the blurry tears, my first thought is that I must be hallucinating.

"Joey?"

He walks toward me and gently lays his hand on my arm. "Are you okay?" he asks, clearly concerned.

But I ignore his concern and step away from the physical contact. "What do _you_ care? What are you doing here, anyway?" Changing the subject oh-so-sneakily.

Joey hesitates for a moment before replying. "I came here to, um, to see if you wanted to be . . . friends again." My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I did _not_ see _that_ coming. He continues: "I realized that I kind of miss hanging out with you guys in that cool coffee place. I mean, I know we only did it a couple times or once or whatever, but it was nice. And I figured: since we have today off from school, today of all days would be a good day to stop by. Apparently, your door was unlocked, so I kind of let myself in. I hope that was okay." Then, his expression turns full-on serious. "So, can we be friends again?"

I speak before I realize I'm even doing anything. "O—okay."

"Okay?" It appears that he wasn't expecting such a reaction. Though, he seems happy to hear it.

"Um . . . yeah, okay," I say. "The awkwardness of just going to history class . . . Well, I'm sick of it. So, okay. We can be friends again."

Joey gives me a friendly smile in reply. "Great," he says happily. I smile—genuinely smile—and realize that I'm glad to have one more friend in my life. But my smile immediately drops when Joey asks his next question. "So . . . _were_ you crying before?"

"Um, I—I was . . . I was . . . No, I wasn't," I reply, knowing that even _Joey_ wouldn't believe such an obvious lie.

Luckily for me, he seems to understand that I don't feel like talking about it and just goes along with my lie. Either that, or he's an even bigger idiot than I thought he was. I highly doubt the latter, though. "Oh. Well, in that case . . . wanna get a cup of coffee? I know this really nice place we can go to." He smirks. I laugh.

"I might just have to take you up on that offer." I smile, glad to be back on friendly terms with this guy. Going to history every day truly _was_ a pain. I have enough awkwardness in my life already. I don't need _more_.

Just as we're approaching the still-open doorway to leave for the coffeehouse, Monica and Chandler appear in the hallway, walking toward us. They enter the dorm, giving Joey confused looks.

I can't help but let out a laugh. "I know!" I say, sounding just like Monica. Then, I explain: "He came over to ask if we could be friends again. And, well, I said yes."

"Oh," Monica says with a forced smile. "Well, that's great!"

I take note of her hidden distress and ask, "The thing with Ross didn't go too well, did it?"

Monica shook her head sadly. "No, he still can't seem to grasp the concept that his best friend and littler sister can be dating."

"Well, maybe he just needs time to . . . digest it," I suggest with a slight shrug.

"Yeah, maybe," Monica agrees.

"Well, anyway," Chandler says, changing the subject, "I'm glad to have Joey back in the group."

I smile. "Yeah. Same here."

"And _I'm_ glad to _be_ back," Joey says.

"We were just about to head down to the coffeehouse," I say to Monica and Chandler. "Do you guys wanna join us?"

They look at each other, and Monica answers, "Sure."

And with that, the four of us head off. We enjoy a fun day at Central Perk, hanging out with Rachel and Phoebe as well. At some point, Ross comes along, finally accepting the fact that Monica and Chandler are a couple. It's fun to hang out with the whole group. Somehow, it makes me feel more normal, having the others around.

. . .

Well, here we are. Back in school. Cue inward groan. Why aren't breaks more common?

Yes, even _I_ enjoy a good break every once in a while. It's not like anything good ever happens to me on school breaks, though—even if it's just a weekend. I mean, on our last break, I went crazy. Is _that_ not proof enough?

Okay, I definitely zoned out there. What was the teacher saying? And what class am I in? Oh, right. Science. None of my friends have this class with me, so I don't really know any of the other kids too well.

Wait, no! Stop thinking! The teacher's talking. Listen to what she's saying. It's probably important. Or is she just bragging about her oh-so-genius son again? Listen . . . listen . . . listen . . .

Listen already, dammit! And stop chanting "listen" in your head. It doesn't help.

Neither does talking to yourself.

Okay, so, the teacher is talking . . . saying words . . . and I'm listening to them: ". . . and for the project, you will partner up with someone to work on it." Oh, great. This means I actually have to _talk_ to people. But I don't _like_ people! "You will get to choose your partners." Oh, that's even worse. Now, everybody will know I'm a loner, and I'll have to partner up with the last person left without a partner—who will probably _also_ be a loner. Well, unless there's an odd number of students in the class. Then, maybe, I'll get to work alone.

A girl can dream, right?

She tells us to go find our partners, and everybody gets up to go run to their best buddy and partner up with them. Some kids are even surrounded by other students, all fighting over that _one_ kid. Lucky kid. Meanwhile, I'm still over here at my desk, rummaging through my backpack to make myself look busy. Then, all of a sudden, I hear a voice cut through the chaos of the classroom.

"Um, hi."

I don't jump, but I flinch. Jeez. Why do voices scare me so darn much? I look up to find a kid I sort of recognize. He's, like, super duper shy and rarely ever talks, but I've seen him in the halls a couple times, and he's in my history class. I don't know his name, though. I forgot that he's in this class. He's about my height and kind of skinny, with short brown hair and glasses.

Oh, crap. He has glasses. That reminds me of . . .

"Hi," I reply, ignoring the name that finishes that thought.

"Do—do you have, um— Do you have somebody to work with?" he asks in a shy voice.

Oh, double crap. He has a stutter. That _really_ reminds me of . . .

"No," I say. "Do you . . . want to work together?" Stupid question. Of course he does! That's why he's over here, talking to me!

"Um, yes. If—if that's all right with you, I mean." I nod. He pushes up his glasses, which have slowly slipped down his nose while he has been standing here, and continues: "My—my name is, um, David, by the way."

Oh, crap to the extreme. Okay, fine! I admit it! He reminds me of David—the _other_ David, I mean.

I tell him my name, though it comes out in a croak. He doesn't seem to notice. If anything, with the way _he_ speaks, it probably sounds normal to him.

"So, we should— we should prob—probably go over to one of our dorms to—to work on the project," new David suggests.

I nod. "Yeah, we should." That's when I remember cat-David. "Um, maybe we should go to _your_ dorm." How in the world would I explain cat-David's name? _Well, you see, when I went crazy, I got this cat and named him David after this guy I barely know. Yeah, his name is David, too._ So, let's see . . . We've got old David, new David, and cat-David. There are just too many Davids to keep track of in my life. "My roommate doesn't really like visitors," I lie. Yeah, right. Monica? Not liking visitors? She was _born_ to be a hostess.

"Oh," new David replies. "Well, that is— that's all right. We can meet at my dorm. Is—is tonight okay? Af—after school?"

"Yeah, that works," I say. I guess I'll have to skip going to the coffeehouse today. "Well, see you then."

David smiles. "See you." He pushes up his glasses again before walking back to his desk in the very back of the room and sitting down.

The last thought I have before the bell rings, signaling us to our next class, is how cute David is with his glasses and stutter.

Hmm . . . sounds familiar.

. . .

Ah. History class. Where I get to be with my friends, and we barely have to do any work. This is a nice class to be in.

Soon after I reach my desk and sit down, Monica and Chandler enter the room. They take the two seats at the table to my left, where they normally sit, with Monica being the one closer to me. We don't have assigned seats in this class, but after the first week or so, everybody pretty much has been sitting in the same seats every day—with the rare exception. Joey comes in moments later, taking the seat to Chandler's left, as usual. I decide that now would be the best time to tell them I won't be able to make it Central Perk today, but just as I open my mouth to speak, I hear a soft-spoken "hello" coming from behind me, slightly to my right. I turn toward the voice and see David sitting in the one open seat between me and the right-most wall.

"Hi," I reply, a bit confused. What's _he_ doing up here in the first row? Doesn't he prefer sitting in the back?

"I—I hope it's all right with you, but I moved my— I moved my seat next to yours," he says in his usual stutter. "You know, so we can, um, work on th—the project."

"Oh, yeah, that's fine," I say casually. David smiles, reminding me of how cute he is.

Just then, I hear Monica calling my name. I turn to face her.

"Who's your friend?" she asks.

"Oh. His name is Dav—" I stop myself before I finish saying his name, but not before Monica clearly understands what name I was about to say.

"His name is _David_?" she inquires. I sigh and nod in reply. That's when David announces that he's going to go sharpen his pencil, heading off for the pencil sharpener on the other side of the classroom. Monica continues, speaking in a low whisper: "This is definitely _not_ good."

"What is?" I ask, acting clueless.

"Hmm, let's see . . . his name is David. He has glasses and stutters a lot. Gee, _who_ does he remind me of? I can't quite put my finger on it," Monica says with clear sarcasm.

I roll my eyes. "Okay, I get it. They have some similarities. What's the big deal? We're just working together on some science project, so he moved his seat closer to mine so we could discuss the project since our history teacher never seems to give us any work and would rather have us spend the entire period just talking with our friends." Jeez. I didn't even realize I was mad at our _teacher_, too. Though, now that I think about, we've barely learned a _thing_ in this class, and he seems fairly lazy for a high school teacher.

"The similarities just concern me," Monica says, snapping me out of my thoughts and back to the subject of the Davids.

"You know, you really don't have to be so concerned for me all the time. I can handle myself." I can see that she wants to comment on that last point, but I continue speaking before she can. "Oh, by the way, I won't be going to Central Perk today. I hope you have fun without me." Before Monica can reply, David returns, effectively ending the conversation.

I smile at David when he sits down next to me, and he gives me a shy smile back. Although I can't see her, I just _know_ Monica must be fuming right about now. Okay, I know she only cares about me, but sometimes she acts like she's my parent or something, and it really gets on my nerves. I can take care of myself.

Or . . . can I?

I mean, it wasn't too long ago that I was wandering the streets of New York on a crazed rampage. But that was just a one-time thing, right? Yeah, it'll never happen again. Now that I'm aware of it, I can stop it before it gets too out of hand if I ever feel the crazies sneaking up on me again. Yeah, I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. I'm _fine_.

* * *

_I can't help but feel that this chapter was horribly uneventful. I got into a fight with my muse, and he left me for this other writer. She's not even attractive!_

_What am I saying? I think this a sign that I should go to bed . . . and never wake up._

_Wait, what? Did I just say that I should __die__?_

_Yeah, I definitely need sleep. My mind isn't functioning properly._

_Oh, almost forgot: I hope you guys enjoyed!_

_Though I'm still working on the plot of the next chapter, I'm not sure how much of it will involve Friends characters, which would be very odd for a Friends fanfiction, but I have a feeling that the majority of it will be my character and new David working on their science project together, and no other characters are really involved in that process. Again, I'm still working on the plot, so we'll see how things go._


	19. Mr and Mrs Logophile

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_Hey, I just gained a new reviewer! That's awesome! Thanks for your reviews, Spitfire303. I'm unbelievably happy that you decided to review some of my earlier chapters as well as my most recent one. Seriously, thank you for that. :D_

_Just a heads-up: There's a lot of new David in this chapter, which means that there's a lot of stuttering in this chapter as well. I actually did some research on stuttering, so I'm trying my best to make David's stuttering as realistic as possible instead of just making him stutter on random words and phrases. There are certain words that people have a tendency to stutter on more than others. It's different for every person, though, which is what makes it so complicated and difficult to cure. Also, apparently, stuttering is about five times more common in men than women, simply because women have higher curing rates at younger ages._

_So, this is kind of weird. This is the longest chapter I've ever written, yet it barely has __Friends__ in it at all. Most of the scenes are just between my character and new David, which is pretty odd considering this is a __Friends__ fanfiction. In that case, I guess you could call this a filler chapter. It only took me a couple days to write, so I guess it wasn't a huge waste of time for me to write this filler chapter._

_I hope you guys enjoy!_

* * *

I spent the entire lapse of my math class glaring at my math teacher, only ceasing when she happened to look in my direction. This is my first time seeing her since the day she forced me to stay after school to help her grade papers. Why are all my teachers so darn lazy? My science teacher would rather brag about her _full grown_ son than actually teach us anything, my history teacher doesn't even bother to assign us any work, and my math teacher can't handle grading her students' papers on her own. I get that being a teacher is a lot of work, but I didn't come to this school to research everything I need to know on Wikipedia so that I actually get some learning done this year. I came here to have _teachers_ teach me. It's right in the title. _Teach_-er.

Okay, I've calmed down now. Sometimes, when I get really frustrated over something, I decide to rant about a random topic in my head to relieve stress. I'm not really all that mad at my teachers at the moment. More than anything, I'm mad about _Monica_. The way she just can't let me take care of myself . . .

Though, I suppose she has a point about the similarities between the Davids. I mean, old David literally made me go crazy because of how much I liked him. And why did I like him? Because he had glasses, he had a stutter, and his name was David. And it's the same with _new_ David. More than her just being concerned for me, I do suppose Monica has the right to be angry with me for my crazed antics._ I_ was the reason she had to go off searching the streets of New York to try to find me. It couldn't have been fun to deal with the drunk way I acted at the sleepover, either. Or my "hangover" the next morning.

It just occurred to me that this must be how parents of troubled, party-crazed, rebellious, boy-crazed, teenaged girls must feel—which is almost kind of funny considering I've always considered myself to be the exact opposite of troubled, party-crazed, rebellious, and boy-crazed. Well, maybe I'm a _little_ boy-crazed. It depends on the day . . . and the boy. But at least the boys _I_ go after aren't troubled, party-crazed, or rebellious. No, I'd rather go after the young Bill Gateses. Or however you pluralize "Gates". It already looks plural, so . . . I'm confused.

The final bell of the day rings, and I realize that I wasn't playing any attention to the math lesson today at all. Oh, well. The homework can't be too hard. It's algebra. Algebra's easy.

Well, according to _me_, everything school-related is easy. Why do I even _bother_ going to school? I could just teach myself everything I need to know. Heck, I pretty much already do that.

I pack up quickly, shoving everything into my backpack carelessly. Screw it. I'll reorganize as soon as I step out of this classroom. But, for now, my main focus is just to get the hell out of here. I rush out the door without a glance back, and I'm actually not the last to leave. About half the class is still in there, chatting and packing up—but mostly chatting. Oh, silly teenagers and their priorities. I turn once I step out of the classroom and come face-to-face with David—_new_ David, in case that wasn't clear enough already.

I jump a little in surprise, especially after realizing that I almost ran right into him. "Oh, David. Hi!" I greet, happy to see him.

"Hi," he replies, flashing me a kind smile. "My class is j—just a couple classrooms down the— down the hall, so I figured I would wait here for you."

"Oh," I reply. Well, that was nice of him. But I realize something odd. "Wait. How did you know _this_ was my last class?"

"Oh, well, like I said, my—my last class is nearby, so I—I always see you at the end of— at the end of the school day." I nod in understanding. Though, on the inside, I'm thinking, _Dang, this kid is observant_. He only proves that thought even more true with his next statement. "I've noticed that—that you tend to be, um— you tend to be the last one out of the— out of the classroom."

Now a little uncomfortable, I reply, "Yeah, um, I . . . pack up slowly." I don't really know why, but I've always been a little embarrassed at this fact. Packing: it's one of those things I'm just not good at. And the fact that someone has—in a way—recognized that flaw . . .

Okay, I'm definitely overeating. So _what_ if I pack slowly? Is that _really_ something to freak out over?

David continues: "I try to pack up fair—fairly quickly so that I can— I can get into the hallway before you— before you're gone. I—I've kind of wanted to talk— to talk to you for a, um— for a while." I'm taken aback by the statement, though I don't really understand what he means by that. He continues: "I've seen you talking to your, um, friends, and you—you guys seem like a lot of— a lot of fun to hang out with. I—I don't really have much in the— in the way of friends, so . . . I—I just . . ."

I take note of his increasing discomfort and decide to change the subject. "Maybe we should head to your dorm where less people are around. It's loud, and I'm afraid of getting trampled in this hallway."

David laughs in reply. "G—good idea." And, with that, we head off to his dorm, him leading the way.

. . .

"One day, Einstein, Newton, and Pascal met up and decided to play a game of hide and seek," I say. "Einstein volunteered to be 'it'. As Einstein counted—with his eyes closed—Pascal ran away and hid, but Newton stood right in front of Einstein and drew a one meter by one meter square on the ground around himself with chalk. When Einstein opened his eyes, he immediately saw Newton and said 'I found you, Newton,' but Newton replied, 'No, you found one Newton per square meter. You found Pascal!'" I smile at the ending despite myself, looking down in embarrassment for telling such a nerdy joke. But when I look back up, I find David to be in a fit of hysterical laughter—the kind of laughter that looks so painful, he isn't even making a sound. "Seriously? Do you have any idea how old that joke is?"

Between laughs, he pants out, "I—I've never . . . heard it . . . before." I smile as his laughter finally becomes audible. With his laughter filling the air, I can't help but laugh, too, even though I've heard that joke a million times before. It _is_ a pretty funny joke, though. And I'm glad I've finally found someone who understands it. I suddenly realize that I'm liking this kid more and more with each added minute we hang out together. We _have_ been working on the project, though. I just keep getting distracted because, well, I love science! And I know a whole lot of nerdy science jokes that I keep remembering as we work, and I can't help but tell them to David. And I suppose there's a part of me that doesn't want us to finish this project too quickly. It's an excuse for me to talk to David and hang out with him—which I am very much enjoying at the moment, so why would I ever want it to end? I'm sure we could do this whole project in a week if we had to, but we have two months to do it, and we'll take the whole two months, dammit! Out of nowhere, David's laughter ceases, he pushes up his glasses, and he says, "I—I think I'm gonna have to—to name my children Einstein, Newton, an—and Pascal, just as a— as a tribute to that hilarious joke."

I smile and jokingly say, "Oh, God, no! Don't name your poor children those horrible names. They'll hate you for life." Then, I get an idea. "They could make cool middle names, though."

A wicked grin flashes across David's face. "Th—those are the _coolest_ middle names I—I've ever heard!"

"Well, maybe _'cool'_ isn't the best word to describe them," I joke. "No offense to the famous geniuses, but I highly doubt Albert Einstein, Isaac Newton, and Blaise Pascal were considered to be very _cool_ in their day."

David laughs. "Yeah, I—I suppose you— You're probably right abou—about that." Then, out of nowhere, his expression turns serious. "D—do you remember, um, earlier when I—I told you that I, um— that I've been wanting to . . . to talk to you f—for a while now?" I nod. "Well, I nev— I never got to, um, finish what I was— what I was saying." I give him a look that silently tells him to go on. "I—I guess I, um— I kind of used this project as a— as an opportunity to, um— to talk to you. To be honest, I was— I was kind of hoping that we could, um, meet at _your_ dorm so that— so that I could, um, possibly meet your—your friends."

I have no idea how to reply to this. It was just so sudden and out of the blue. I almost want to invite him to the coffeehouse tomorrow, but I just know Monica would give me a whole lecture about how "concerning" this all is—just because the poor kid has glasses, a stutter, and his name is David.

It turns out I don't have to reply at all; David continues speaking. "I—I've noticed something while, um— while we've been talking. I gen—generally stutter way more than how— than how much I stutter around . . . well, around _you_. I—I know it must sou—sound crazy that I actually stutter _more_ than—than this, but I—I do. That—that's why I'm fine talking with—with you, but I—I'm practically silent around any—anyone else."

That fact amazes me. He stutters _less_ around _me_? I can't be the _only_ one. "Have you noticed this with anybody else? Stuttering less around them, I mean."

He shakes his head. "Nope. No—nobody."

That's when something occurs to me, though I don't know why it occurs to me so suddenly. "Do you have a roommate?" He hasn't mentioned having one, and—as far as I know—we're the only ones in his dorm right now.

He seems confused by the question, though he answers nonetheless. "Y—yes, I do. Though, he—he likes to skip school to sleep all day, and—and then he goes out to—to parties at night, so I—I almost never see him. I—I don't know his real name, bu—but he gen—generally goes by Gandalf."

"As in the _wizard_?" I say. "That's . . . weird." Let's just hope his real name isn't Max. "I've never even read _The Lord of the Rings_, which is odd considering how much I love books."

"I—I've read it," David says. "G—good story, of course. Just . . . n—not really my type."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"J—just all the fantasy stuff," he replies. "I—I still enjoyed the—the read, but I guess I—I'm not a big 'fantasy' kind of, um— kind of guy." I guess I know what he means. I've heard plenty about _The Lord of the Rings_, and I can understand the appeal. I'm just not a fantasy-lover myself either. David continues: "But, the—the thing is, I—I've never read a book and _not_ enjoyed it, even if— even if it wasn't my type."

"Well, obviously, you've never read _Twilight_," I joke. "I mean, neither have _I_, but I hear that it's terrible."

"The—the thing is . . . I—I probably would enjoy read—reading _Twilight_, even if it _is_ as bad as— as bad as they say. I just _love_ books. I—I love reading; I love _words_. It—it's weird, but I—I almost get a sort of _pleasure_ out of reading, um— out of reading words." I give him an odd look. "N—not _that_ kind of pleasure." I laugh.

"No, no. I know what you mean," I say. "You're a logophile."

Now, _David_ is the one giving _me_ a confused look. "A log-uh-_what_?"

"A logophile: a lover of words," I clarify. "Someone who experiences pleasure from merely reading words."

David just looks plain astonished. "H—how in the _world_ do you know so much?"

"I only know this because _I'm_ a logophile, too," I tell him. "That's why I read so much. It's just . . . _pleasurable_." I smirk, causing David to laugh. I look down at my wrist, only to realize—once again—that I don't wear a watch. But I can only assume that we've been talking for quite a while. "Maybe we should get back to work now."

. . .

The next day, in science class, David has decided to move his seat next to mine—like in history class. The morning announcements are coming in through the speakers on the walls of the classroom. Every morning, the principal makes announcements about what's going on in the school. It's generally the same old stuff every day; though, there's the occasional announcement that's actually interesting. Today, we have one of those announcements.

_". . . and I know it's a little early to announce this, but the first-quarter dance is coming up."_

Coming up? In six weeks, yeah. I wouldn't really considering something that's six weeks away to be _"coming up"_.

Apparently, at this school, there's a dance at the end of every quarter—every nine weeks, approximately.

The announcement continues to state the dress code for the dance and details about admission and the food being served there. The morning announcements end the way they always do.

_"Have a fun and educational day in school."_

Same wording. Every day. Some kids even say the words along with him—mockingly, of course.

"Are—are you going to go to—to the dance?" David's voice snaps my attention toward him.

I shrug in reply. "I don't know. Probably. My friends are all in love with one another, so I wouldn't be surprised if they all wanted to go, and they'll probably drag me along as their seventh wheel." Actually, Joey will probably ask someone to go with him. Hmm . . . I wonder if Ross, Phoebe, and Rachel are even allowed to go. Is the dance strictly for people who go to this school, or are we each allowed to bring a guest? "Or possibly their ninth wheel. We'll see how things go."

David laughs. "I—I guess life is— life is more complicated when you have— when you have a lot of friends."

Before I can reply, the teacher has announced the beginning of class in her own, kind, special way: "Everybody, shut up!"

. . .

Most days, I would be excited for lunch time. Today, however, I've been dreading it. I hold my tray of what barely qualifies as food as my gaze switches back and forth between two focal points. The first point is the table where Monica, Chandler, Mike, and Joey are now sitting. Any other day, I would immediately head for that table and chat with my friends while eating my horsemeat sandwich. The second focal point is outside, up against the wall of the cafeteria, where David is sitting on the ground, eating—alone.

I want to sit with David. I _really_ want to sit with David. But what I don't want is my friends asking me where I was during lunch and having to admit that I was eating lunch with David; I've been kind of getting the idea that Monica doesn't like me hanging out with him, though it's just a hunch.

Okay, maybe I should leave the sarcasm to Chandler. He's way better at it than me.

I shake my head to myself and head outside. Why do I care what Monica thinks? I make my way over to David and smile when I'm within his line of sight. "Hi, David," I greet him.

He looks up at me and cheerfully replies, "Oh, hi!" I sit down next to him before he has the chance to say his next sentence. "Wha—what are you doing here? Don't you have a bunch— a bunch of friends you—you can sit with?"

"Well, if it's all right with you," I say, "I would like to consider _you_ to be one of my friends."

His eyes light up at that statement. "Re—really?"

I nod. "Of course." I smile at him, causing him to smile back. "Plus, my friends all have each other. They don't need me."

David nods in what appears to be understanding. Then, he asks, "Re—remember earlier when I—I asked if you were, um, going to the— to the dance?"

I nod. "Yeah."

Before David can say whatever it is that he's about to say, Monica intrudes on our conversation. Wait, where did she even come from? I didn't see her approaching. She just kind of appeared next to me. And now she's talking, trying to keep her voice level: "Hey, everybody's wondering where you are."

"Well, I'm here," I say dryly. "I didn't think you guys would even notice that I'm gone."

"Of course they did . . . after I brought it up," Monica adds. "So . . ."

"So . . . ?" I say, confused.

"Are you going to eat with us?" she asks, frustration beginning to show.

I shrug, clearly annoying her with how casual I'm acting, as if I'm completely clueless to the fact that Monica doesn't want me becoming friends with David. "Nah. I'd rather eat here."

It takes her several long seconds to reply, but she eventually does. "Okay, fine. Suit yourself." She turns on her heel and walks away. Well, at least she knows when to give up the fight.

I turn back to David. "So, you were saying?"

"Oh, right," he says. "Well, I—I was just wondering if you, um— if you wanted to—"

"Hey, David," a kid's voice calls, interrupting David's statement. The kid approaches us. He has short brown hair and looks to be around fourteen years old. He takes one look at me, then asks David, "Who's your girlfriend?"

David winces, closing his eyes and hanging his head in frustration. "J—just leave— just leave me alone, Max."

Max? Did he just say _Max_? Please tell me I just imagined it.

"Never," Max sneers at David. "So, you actually built up the courage to talk to a girl, huh?"

"Um, excuse me?" I say, getting Max's attention. "Who are you?"

David answers. "He—he's my idiot little brother."

David and Max. Brothers. David and Max. Friends. It's all too familiar.

Speaking to Max, I ask, "And _why_ exactly are you over here bothering us?"

He puts up his hands in mock defense. "Hey, calm down, ginger," he says before laughing at his own "wit". He continues: "I happened to notice that my brother was actually _talking_ to someone, and I just _had_ to come over to make sure I wasn't having a hallucination."

I grit my teeth, my frustration clear. "Well, you aren't. Can you _please_ leave now?"

"Fine," Max says, and I let out a sigh of relief. "I'll leave you two lovebirds alone." And with that, he turns on his heel and walks away.

As soon as the little punk is out of sight, David finally lifts his head and pushes up his glasses. "I—I _really_ . . . hate . . . that kid," he says slowly between heaving breaths.

"You have to _live_ with that little twerp?" I ask with clear concern. Poor David. I can't imagine having to live with such a horrid creature of a brother. I have one brother, and he's the nicest guy in the world. I've never had to deal with the horrors of sibling rivalry.

"Luck—luckily for me, not _anymore_," David replies. "Tha—that's why I wanted to, um— to come to this—this boarding school: to get away from _him_."

"I can imagine," I say in agreement. "I just met him, and I already hate the guy."

"I—I was supposed to c—come to this school _alone_, bu—but he insisted tha—that I bring him along." David shakes his head in frustration, which causes his glasses to slip down his nose again. He pushes them back up. "My— our mother claims tha—that he _loves_ me or that he—he's just _jealous_ of me or some—something, but I—I can't imagine _anyone_ being jealous of—of _me_."

Though I probably understand what he's talking about, I ask anyway. "What do you mean?"

"My—my stutter. It . . . it's a _pain_," David says with clenched fists. "Whe—when I was little, I—I was supposed to—to get therapy for my, um— my stuttering. Bu—but that little _jerk_ made fun of me to—to no end for need—needing therapy. Ev—eventually, I com—completely backed out of the idea. I—I just couldn't take it any— I couldn't take it anymore."

I get the sudden strange urge to give David a hug. He sure looks like he could use one. It's just . . . I'm not really the "hugging" type. I want to say something—to tell him how sorry I am that he's stuck with such a prick for a little brother—but I have a feeling that if I open my mouth, I'll wind up saying something stupid or some attempt at a joke. I bite my lip and let him continue to vent.

"Over—over time, th—the stuttering has only got—gotten worse. Now, it—it takes me forever just to— just to say a—a sentence, which . . . which has inad—inadvertently caused me trouble in, um— in trying to ask someone out. Ev—every time I—I'm about to ask, it . . . it takes me so long to—to get the words out that, before I can finish, I always wind up get—getting interrupted."

I give him a sympathetic look, though he isn't looking up at me to see. Instead, he stares down at the ground, as if the most fascinating thing in the world is down there. Why won't he look at me?

After a long pause, he _finally_ looks up at me with a shy look in his eyes. "You—you _do_ realize that I—I'm talking about _you_, right?"

My eyes widen at this realization. "Wha—what?" I ask with a stutter that would be laughable any other time. But now, instead, I'm wondering: Did I _hear_ him right? No, there's no way. I just misheard him. That's all. I mean, why would anybody want to ask _me_ out?

But with his next statement, I know that I did not mishear him at all.

"So . . . will you— will you go to the, um— the dance with me?"

* * *

_Oh, no! Cliffhanger! You guys hate cliffhangers, don't you? Sorry, I couldn't help it. This chapter was just going on and on and on, and it had to stop somewhere, right?_

_This chapter probably didn't even feel like it was a part of a fanfiction considering the only __Friends__ character that appeared in this chapter was Monica, and that was only for a very brief appearance._

_So, about that scene where my character and David are talking about that joke: that's actually one of my favorite jokes ever, though I wonder how many of my readers will even get the punch line._

_The part where they're talking about Einstein, Newton, and Pascal as names for their children was inspired by the fact that I actually know a guy with the first name Pascal, and he claims to like his name. I can't imagine having one of those three as a first name, though I think those really would be awesome middle names. Hmm . . . that gives me an idea. My children are going to have the nerdiest middle names ever. :D_

_And, before I forget, I have one more thing to say: I hope you guys enjoyed!_


	20. No?

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_Holy crap! It's been twenty chapters already? I guess I'm gonna have to make this chapter good. Remember how I ended the tenth chapter with Monica and Chandler kissing?_

_So, this chapter doesn't really have much in the way of __Friends__—like the last chapter. It's a David-centric chapter. Sorry. I just love that kid! I can't help it. But, I assure you, the storyline will be more __Friends__-centric again soon._

_I hope you guys enjoy!_

* * *

For the longest time, I can't seem to find my voice. I just sit there like an idiot. What the hell am I doing? Why am I not saying yes yet? Oh, dear God. David looks so sad. He thinks I'm going to say no!

I force myself to say the first thing that comes to mind.

"No."

Wait, _what_? Did I just say . . . ? No? _No_? That's not what I meant to say. That's not what I meant to say! Oh, stupid piece-of-crap brain! Why can't you ever function the way I want you to?

"I mean—," I begin, but David interrupts me.

"Oh, well . . . tha—that's . . . all right," he mumbles awkwardly, his face bright red from embarrassment. "I, um— I have to—to be somewhere." With that, he quickly gathers his lunch into his lunchbox and hurries off.

I want to say something. I want to run after him and tell him that "no" wasn't what I meant to say; yet, I don't move. I feel paralyzed, frozen in place. _Get up!_ I tell myself. _Go after him!_ But I don't. Oh, could I hate myself more than I do right at this moment? I doubt it. Jeez, I _finally_ find a guy I like who likes me back . . . and I do _this_.

I stare down at my "chicken" sandwich. Suddenly, I don't really feel like eating.

My paralysis stays with me throughout lunchtime. I probably couldn't have eaten anything even if I wanted to. But something about the ringing of that bell seems to awaken my nerves. I finally stand up and head to my next class.

. . .

I'm not really surprised when I find that David has decided to sit in the back of the history classroom today. Though it breaks my heart, it does not surprise me one bit.

I don't even get the chance to go over and talk to him before the teacher is telling us to take our seats. I resolve to sitting in my normal seat in the first row. I can talk to David later. Now is not the time. First, I need to prepare what I'm going to say. I mean, how the hell do I explain _this_? How am I supposed to explain the way my brain messed up and reversed what I was trying to say? How do I explain something I don't even understand myself? He would probably think that I'm crazy—or lying. To be fair, the prior is probably true, but the latter . . . definitely not. I wanted to say yes. So badly. It was just a slip of the tongue, I'm sure. But I'm afraid that if I try to explain that I meant to say yes, David will think I just changed my mind out of sympathy for him, which is so _not_ what it is.

Why—oh, _why_—did I say no?

Was it because of Monica? Maybe there was some part of my brain that was thinking about how Monica would react to the news of me and David going to the dance together. Maybe some small part of me still cares what Monica thinks. But I _shouldn't_ care what she thinks. I get why she's concerned. Really, I do. But I shouldn't let _Monica's_ opinion affect _mine_.

Or maybe I said no because saying yes felt . . . wrong. What if the only reason I like new David really _is_ because he reminds me of old David? That definitely wouldn't be right. But . . . I don't think I still like old David. I mean, jeez; I only knew the guy for, like, a couple minutes. I think, by now, I should be over him. Just the thought of me still liking old David is ridiculous. _New_ David is the one I like. There was no good reason for me to have said no.

Seriously, how do I explain this to him? Maybe I should just come up with some sort of lie. I could tell him that I'm not allowed to date, and that's why I said no. But then I still wouldn't be able to go to the dance with him. Well, at least he wouldn't feel quite as rejected. Or I could tell him I already have a boyfriend. Once again, that would mean that I still wouldn't be able to go to the dance with David . . . unless if this imaginary boyfriend of mine broke up with me. Oh, but I don't want David to feel like a rebound boyfriend.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

Maybe lying isn't the answer. Lies are just too difficult to keep track of. One small little white lie turns into a bigger one, which turns into a bigger one, which turns into an even bigger one. And then more people get involved in the lie to the point where it's too much to keep track of.

At least, that's how it works on television. I don't lie to people, so I wouldn't know for sure.

I guess I'll just have to tell David the truth. But what _is_ the truth? That I'm too stupid to tell "yes" from "no"? That my friend doesn't approve of our relationship, and that was enough to ward me away from the idea of going to the dance with this guy? That I may only like him because he reminds me of some other guy with the same first name?

Maybe it's just not meant to be. Maybe_ that's_ why I said no. Yeah, maybe I should just give up on the whole idea of me and David ever getting together.

. . .

Math class was a bore, as usual. Can't we learn something _difficult_ for a change? Seriously, I can't get a single challenging class in this school. I'm bored out of my mind here!

If the class wasn't so darn boring, I wouldn't have had to daydream and have my mind wander as the teacher explained the quadratic formula for the fifth time. Seriously, is the quadratic formula _that_ hard to understand? Anyway, I just wish my mind didn't have to linger on the subject of David the entire class period. I really had no reason to pay attention. I've known this stuff since I was little, and the teacher doesn't even call on me to answer questions anymore. She knows I know all the answers. So, basically, I may as well not even be here. It wouldn't make a difference.

When the last bell of the day rings, I once again pack hurriedly and run for the door. Once I reach the hallway outside the classroom, I spot David—though, today, he doesn't appear to be waiting for me. I walk over to him. Shyly, I greet him.

"Hey, David."

His usual awkwardness only seems to increase with my greeting. "Oh, um, h—hello." He doesn't stop his walk. He continues, heading for the staircase to take us downstairs to the building's exit. I force myself next to him so that we're walking together, whether he wants me here or not.

"Look, David," I begin. "At lunch today, you ran off before I could explain—"

"I—I'm sorry," David interrupts. "I have to—to be some—somewhere soon. I'm in a bit of— a bit of a hurry." Before I can reply, he pushes his way through the crowded halls of the school, down the stairs, and out of sight.

I sigh. I wonder what the chances are that he _actually_ had somewhere he had to be.

Seriously: This is going to be harder than I thought.

. . .

I sit alone in my dorm, my head in my hands. I finished all my homework way quicker than I had hoped. It was something to take my mind of things, so I was enjoying it. But, now that it's done, all I have left to do is think.

It's too late to change what I said. I said no, and there's no taking that back. David probably wouldn't understand even if he gave me the opportunity to explain what happened. I give up. There's no chance of this working out. But, even if I give up completely on the idea of me and David getting together, that still leaves one problem: we still have to work together on the science project. And I really don't want to lose David as a friend. The poor kid doesn't even _have_ any friends. And—according to him—I'm the only person he can talk to because, for whatever reason, his stutter is lessened considerably around me. No wonder the kid wanted to go to the dance with me. I'm his only chance to be able to actually _talk_ to somebody at a social gathering.

All of a sudden, the dorm door opens, and Chandler walks in. He barely glances at me before going to the refrigerator and grabbing a soda—of course. With his back turned, he asks, "Is Mon here?"

I shake my head even though he can't see. "No, she's at her new job. The fifties diner place." I try to make my words sound cheery or at least casual, but I can't help the despair that leaks in. Picking up on my sorrow, Chandler spins around and walks over to me.

"You all right?" he asks, his voice filled with concern.

Not in the mood to talk about it—especially not with Monica's boyfriend—I reply, "Yeah, I'm fine."

But Chandler doesn't buy it. "I can tell something's wrong, so you may as well explain."

"I'm okay, _really_," I push.

He shakes his head. "I'm not gonna leave until you tell me what's wrong." To emphasize his point, he takes the seat next to me on the couch.

"Well, I _do_ really want you to leave, so . . . ," I tease.

"Nice," Chandler mumbles.

"Okay, fine. I'll tell you," I give in. "There's this guy—" I hardly begin before Chandler's interrupting me with a goofy grin on his face.

"Oh, _now_ things just got interesting," he comments. I shoot him a glare, and he whispers a "sorry".

"Anyway," I say, "he . . . he kind of asked me to go to the dance with him, and I . . . I said no."

"What, was he not cute enough?" Chandler remarks. I roll my eyes. He's gotten _way_ too into the girly character.

"No, _believe me_, that's not it," I say, unable to hold back a shy smile. I bite my lip. Chandler's eyebrows shoot up at that. I shake my head to myself and force the stupid grin away. "What I mean is, I like the guy. A lot. I just . . . I don't know what happened. I just, somehow, said the wrong thing." Chandler looks confused, so I clarify: "I meant to say _yes_. I said _no_, but I meant to say _yes_."

Always the jokester, Chandler asks in reply "So, he _is_ cute?"

I give him a light smack on the arm and laugh. "Of course _you_ would want to know."

Out of nowhere, Chandler turns serious. "But in all seriousness: You like this guy?"

I nod. "A lot."

"Then, there you go," he says calmly, like the answer is obvious.

"There I go . . . what?" I ask, confused.

"Talk to him. Tell him what happened," Chandler says. "He'll understand. I _know_ you. You wouldn't like a guy who isn't smart. He _will_ understand."

"But that's just the problem," I say. "He isn't even talking to me, he's so embarrassed. He's super shy already, and there's no way this is helping him."

"Then find an excuse to talk to him," Chandler suggests. _Thanks, Captain Obvious_, I think. Chandler continues: "Some urgent reason to speak with him that he can't refuse. You're smart. You'll think of something." He stands back up and heads for the door, ready to leave.

Before he does, I call out, "Chandler, wait!" He turns to face me, hand hovering over the doorknob. I smile and say a quick, "Thanks."

He grins back. "No problem." With that, he opens the door and walks back out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

Leaving me thinking: _Who would've thought _Chandler_ would be the one giving relationship advice?_

Not only that, but _good_ relationship advice. And it's so simple. _Find an excuse to talk to him._ Now, all I need is an excuse.

That's when I get an idea. How could I not have thought of it sooner?

The project.

. . .

It's not like we can completely forget about the project, just because David doesn't want to talk to me. Sure, we don't really need the other person to work on it, but there _is_ a "contribution" section to the paperwork where we have to describe—in _detail_—how we worked together on it, and I've found that it's easier to tell the truth than to lie, so . . . in short: I need him, and he needs me. I have no doubt that he's also shooting for a perfect score on this thing.

I grab the last of my needed school supplies and leave, heading into the hallway that Chandler just entered not even ten minutes ago. Of course, Chandler's long gone by now. But it's not Chandler I'm looking for. I walk down the hallway until I reach a fork, then I take a left. _I sound like a human GPS_, I think. I push the thought away and, instead, focus on the plan.

I'm going to use the project as an excuse to talk to David—just like how he used it as an excuse to talk to _me_. Except, in _this_ case, I'm not going to initiate my plan during school hours. In school, it's too crowded and easy for David to make some excuse and then disappear into the crowd, effectively ending our conversation, like he did earlier today when I tried to talk to him. No, in _this_ case, I'm going straight to his dorm. He can't escape me—he can't tell me he has somewhere he has to be—if I walk in on him just reading or working on homework in his dorm, which is exactly what I'm expecting to find when that door is opened.

I slow my walk when I approach dorm number 108. I take a deep breath before knocking. I count the seconds, silently pleading with every god I've ever heard of that he'll be in there—that he won't look through the peephole and decide not to answer the door to _me_.

Then, finally, the door opens.

But it's not the person I'm expecting on the other side.

Instead of a slender sixteen-year-old boy with short brown hair and glasses, I see a guy who looks to be at least two years older, much taller, and I wouldn't exactly call him thin. He has an icepack held up to his head, and his hair is a mess.

"Who are you, and why are you banging on my door?" he says with a groan.

Did I come to the right dorm?

The guy shakes his head to himself. "Excuse my manners. I'm just nursing a major headache here. My name is Mike: Mike Ganderson."

That's when I make the connection. "Oh, you're Gandalf," I say.

He nods, then grimaces as if that small movement was enough to intensify the pain in his head. Very suddenly, a worried expression comes over him. "Wait, are you the girl I was with last night? Sorry, I meant to call you. It's just—"

My eyes widen. "_What?_ No, no, no!" I say quickly.

"Oh, sorry," he says. "I just know she was a ginger. And I _think_ she was a girl."

I just stare at this guy in disbelief for several long seconds before continuing with my plan. "Anyway, I'm here to see David. Is he around?"

"The little nerdy kid?" Gandalf rubs the stubble on his chin in what I'm sure is very "deep" thought. "No, he had to run. He's got some sort of therapist appointment or somethin'." Another grimace of pain. "Oh, crap! I just remembered: that was supposed to be a secret. Stupid hangover. It's makin' it hard to think."

Therapist appointment? So, David _wasn't_ lying when he said he had to be somewhere. I say a quick thanks to Gandalf for the information, turn in the direction of my dorm, and take off running.

When I get back to my dorm, I run in without even bothering to shut the front door behind me. I dash to my room and grab my laptop, practically throwing it onto the bed in a hurry. I open the device, log on, and begin searching. I research therapists' offices in the area until I find what I'm looking for. There's one just a couple blocks away that specializes in speech fluency. That's gotta be it.

Oh, crap! The place closes in fifteen minutes! I know I could just wait until David gets back to his dorm, but with his roommate there, it would be a lot more difficult to have a conversation with him. I make my way out of my room, out of the dorm, out of the school building, and to the street. I hail a taxi. I get in and tell the driver the address before commanding him to hurry. I take out the money during the drive, knowing that I won't have the time to wait until I see the total fare. I overestimate, but I don't care. I can always get more money. I don't even wait for the taxi to come to a complete stop before jumping out and almost throwing the money at the driver. When my eyes land on the therapists' office, I groan inwardly.

It's on the third story.

I climb the stairs two at a time. It doesn't even seem to occur to me at the time that I don't need to hurry at this point. I'm already here. But I put all my energy into getting up these stairs as fast as possible. When I get to the top of the first set of stairs—the bottom of the second set—I check my watch before remembering that I don't _wear_ a watch. Someday I'll remember. Or I'll get a watch. I continue up the second staircase until I reach the top. I walk along the catwalk, passing by several doors that lead into various businesses until the find the one I'm looking for: speech fluency and articulation therapy. I push open the door and step inside. There's a tiny waiting room where a man in his mid-thirties and a young boy who can't be more than four years old sit. Directly in front of me is a hallway with four doors on each side and a door at the very end of the hall. In all, the business is very small in size, and I get a disturbing sense of claustrophobia. I feel like there's some sort of irony in that. A therapists' office has _caused_ me claustrophobia. Well, it's not really _that_ kind of therapy they provide here. These guys are more of doctors than shrinks.

Just then, the second door down on the right side of the hallway opens. A man walks out, followed by a familiar face. The man is speaking to David.

"I hope your first appointment wasn't _too_ terrible, Mr. Newman."

_Newman?_ I can't help but think. _New David's last name is Newman? What are the odds?_

David replies, "No, it was— it was all right." He turns, and that's when he sees me. He freezes in his tracks, though the therapist doesn't seem to notice.

"I think I can hear you improving already," the doctor comments. "Well, I will see you back here next week."

David nods, though his focus is still on me. The therapist walks into the waiting area and ushers the little boy to come with him. The dad follows. Meanwhile, David is walking toward me. We're now the only ones left in the room. To say that I'm surprised at the first words David has to say to me would be quite the understatement.

"Are you— are you here to make fun of me like—like my brother does?" he asks, his face showing actual fear at the thought.

"What?" I ask in confusion. "Let me put it _this_ way, David: I would _never_ do anything your brother does. I am nothing like him. Not one bit." I flash him a kind smile. "I'm _glad_ you're here, taking therapy for your speech. This is good for you."

He awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. "Um, thanks. Why are— why are you here, then?"

"I've been needing to talk to you about something," I say straightforwardly.

He looks worried, though he replies nonetheless. "Wha—what is it?"

"Remember when you . . . when you asked me to go to the dance with you?" With clear embarrassment, David nods uncomfortably. I continue: "And remember how I said no? Well, that wasn't exactly what I meant to say."

And now he just looks plain confused. "What do— what do you mean?"

"I meant to say yes," I explain. "I don't know what happened. Maybe I was just nervous or something, but I said the wrong thing. I wanted to tell you that I meant to say yes—I really did—but you took off. And all day, I kept trying to talk to you."

David's features soften, morphing into a look of complete bewilderment. "You . . . you meant to say _yes_?" I nod. "You meant to say yes." Now, it doesn't sound so much like a question. I take note of the lack of stuttering. He smiles and says in an almost giddy way, "You meant to say yes!" He embraces me in a hug, which surprises me at first, but I quickly get used to it and hug back. I really am _not_ the "hugging" type, but this hug I actually enjoy. Several seconds later, we pull out of the hug and David says in a clearly fake miserable voice, "Wh—why does the dance have to be— have to be six weeks away? Tha—that's just too long!"

I laugh. Oh, this guy is just too adorable.

"Don't worry," I say. "It'll come sooner than you think."

* * *

_I guess that last line is a bit of a hint or foreshadowing or something along those lines._

_I feel kind of bad. I've been so mean to David lately. Giving him a stutter. Giving him a terrible little brother. Saying no. The list goes on and on. But I'm finally trying to fix some of his problems. Yes, that therapy he's taking will be effective._

_Well, anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed. The next chapter is pretty dramatic, so just enjoy the happy ending for now before it's all ruined._


	21. The Dance - Part I

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_I realized that I don't reply to reviews as often as I should. I really appreciate each and every review I receive, so I should at least acknowledge that I'm receiving them._

_**Sweet Sugarrrush:**__ I'm glad I eventually decided to go with the happy ending. Happiness is awesome!  
Yes, David is adorable. Stating the obvious, but whatever.  
I thought it would be interesting to have Chandler give my character advice. It's a bit out of his character to do so, but I could picture it, and I thought it would be kind of sweet and cute to have a scene like that, just between my character and Chandler.  
Gandalf is an awesome character to write. I love that he was never shown on the show, so I get to pretty much make up what he's like. He's almost my own character, in a way, which is super fun to write. That's why I love writing David Newman so much. I'm so glad I finally gave that kid a last name._

_**Mondlercrazy0508:**__ Thanks for your review. I'm glad to hear you like the story._

_**Lobstersaremyfriends:**__ Your review put a huge, stupid grin on my face. I'm glad nobody is around at the moment because I just know that I look like an idiot when I smile like this. I'm glad to hear you like the story._

_**Spitfire303: **__I know I've used this exact wording twice already, but I'm glad to hear you like the story.  
It also amazes me how people still write fanfiction for a show that ended nearly a decade ago. I guess that's proof that __Friends__ really is an amazing show._

_So, I decided to split this chapter up into two parts. It was getting to be much longer than I had anticipated, and there's a lot more plot than what could fit into one chapter, so . . . yeah._

_I must warn you guys about this chapter and the next chapter, though: Some of you are going to hate what happens. Actually, a lot of you are going to hate it, I'm sure. But some things . . . they just have to happen._

_You'll see what I mean._

_And since it's now a tradition for me to say this: I hope you guys enjoy!_

* * *

David and I have been a couple for six weeks. Six weeks. I haven't been single in six weeks.

Six.

Weeks.

I still can't believe it. It's too amazing to believe.

You know how they say time flies when you're having fun? Well, it's true. I remember the day that David and I first got together when I told him that the dance would come sooner than he'd think. Well, I was right. I feels like just yesterday I was running around trying to find David, eventually reaching him at that therapists' office.

Speaking of David's therapy: His stutter has lessened considerably in the weeks that he's been practicing speech fluency and articulation methods. The only problem is that to reduce his stutter, he has to speak much more slowly now; but he's working on that, too. All he needs is time. Eventually, he'll be able to speak almost perfectly, I'm sure. I have faith in this kid. He's working really hard at this speaking stuff. It may sound weird and cliché, but I'm really proud of him.

In other news: The dance is tonight! The dance is tonight! The dance is _tonight_!

Did I mention that the dance is tonight? Well, it is. After school. We get a couple hours between the end of school and the beginning of the dance to get ready or whatever, which is the part that I'm _not_ so excited about. I mean, I have to wear a dress. That's just _evil_. Rachel, Phoebe, and Monica are probably going to encourage me to wear makeup as well. This is torture in its purest form. But I'll just have to get through it. I don't really have a choice, do I? I don't want to be the _only_ girl who isn't all dressed up and makeup-ed up. Yes, "makeup" is now a verb. Don't deny it.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention the best thing that's happened in the past six weeks: Monica has finally accepted the fact that I like David Newman, and it has _nothing_ to do with old David. New David is even a part of our group now. You know, now that he can actually _talk_ to the others. Poor kid. Once again, I'm so proud of all the hard work he's been doing to improve his speech. Though, in all honesty, I _do_ kind of miss his adorable stutter. But he's still cute as ever without it. I'm so lucky to be with a guy like him.

Again, that probably sounded cliché, but I don't care.

Finally, I'm done getting ready for school. I grab everything I'll need for class today and head for the door. Monica already left with Chandler a couple minutes ago. When I exit the dorm, I'm immediately greeted by David. It's kind of become routine for him to wait outside the dorm for me in the mornings and walk with me to school. We have the same first class, so it only makes sense.

"Hey," I greet him with a smile. I can't help but smile whenever I'm around him.

What's with all the clichés lately? Is that what being in a relationship is like? A bunch of clichés?

David smiles back. "Hello. How are you?" When he speaks, he has to pause briefly between each word, and every syllable is said slowly and carefully. It sounds a little odd, but it's cute in its own way. Is _everything_ about this kid cute? Cliché, cliché, cliché. So many damn clichés!

"I'm well, thank you," I reply as we begin walking. "And _you_?"

"Excited," he says. "The dance sounds fun."

"Yeah," I agree. "Tons of free food. Music. Oh, and I heard this rumor that your roommate's gonna spike the punch."

David lets out a laugh. "I would not be surprised."

"Maybe I'll just be sticking to _water_," I say. "You don't suppose Gandalf would spike the water fountain with vodka, do you?"

"Sounds like too much work," David replies. "I doubt Gandalf would put _that_ much effort into a task."

I laugh. "Yeah, you're probably right."

Soon, we arrive at the school part of the building. We're still about fifteen minutes early, so we decide to head to the cafeteria for breakfast. When we get there, we find Monica and Chandler already there, eating muffins and bananas. Despite the crappy "chicken" sandwiches they serve at lunch, this school sure has a good selection of breakfast food items. They have fruit, pastries, cereals, milk, orange juice, apple juice, cranberry juice, and the list goes on and on. And it's all _fresh_, too!

"Okay, let me guess," David says, turning to me. "A banana nut muffin, some grapes, and apple and cranberry juice so we can mix them and create cran-apple?"

I smile. "You know me too well."

"I will be right back," he says, heading for the lines where they serve the food. I know by now that there's no point in arguing that I should come with him. He likes doing stuff for me like this, the little weirdo. Oh, but he's _my_ little weirdo.

I think I better just get used to the clichés.

I head over to the table where Monica and Chandler are sitting and sit down in the seat across from Monica. I greet them with a simple "hey" that they each echo. We're soon joined by Joey, just as David returns. David sits next to me—across from Chandler—and Joey sits in the empty seat to Chandler's left. More greetings and small talk. David and I mix the apple and cranberry juices because—let's face it—cran-apple is just plain awesome. Then, the conversation takes an interesting turn.

"Oh, I just remembered," Joey announces. "Did you guys hear? Gandalf's gonna spike the punch."

"_Everybody_ has heard that, Joe," Chandler retorts.

"Well, in _other_ news," Joey says, "I'm going to the dance with this girl named Chloe—"

"Oh, that's cute," I interrupt. "Your names rhyme."

"Yeah, anyway," Joey continues, "I think you guys would like her. She's really nice."

Chandler gives him an odd look. "You see, you _say_ 'nice', but inside I know that's not what you're thinking."

Joey smirks and replies, "Well, duh. Of course she's hot, too."

"But of course," Chandler says with an eye-roll.

"Speaking of the dance," I say, changing the subject, "Does anybody know if Phoebe, Rachel, and Ross are able to come?" Although Ross was originally only going to be visiting for a couple days, his grades were recognized for being exceptional by his school board. I don't really know the details, but somehow he wound up being able to skip the rest of his senior year. Since the school year was already a couple weeks in at this point, he decided to take the rest of the year off and go to college next year. So, now, he's been staying somewhere near the boarding school so he can remain part of the group. Plus, he _is_ dating Rachel, and it's easier for them to be closer together like this.

Monica is the one to reply to my question. "Apparently, we're each allowed to bring a 'date' from outside the school, so we'll just have to lie and say that Phoebe and Rachel are Chandler and Joey's dates, and Ross is your date."

I raise my eyebrows at that. "_My_ date?"

"Well, he can't be _mine_," Monica says.

"Oh, I have a better plan!" I say with a devilish grin. "I'll say _Phoebe_ is my date and see how the school administrators react."

"Take note of the fact that she chose _Phoebe_ over _Rachel_," Chandler remarks.

I roll my eyes. "Just an example," I clarify. "But, come on, guys! I want to see if we can pull it off. I'll go with Phoebe—or _Rachel_, whatever—and Monica can go with whichever girl I'm_ not_ going with. And Chandler'll go with Ross."

David cuts into the conversation at that point. He's generally more of a listener than a participant when it comes to conversations, but he'll occasionally give his input. "I think they will start to suspect something is up if we _all_ act gay."

"Hmm, good point," I agree. "Maybe this isn't one of my _best_ plans." I let out a sigh, defeated. "Fine. We can be straight tonight."

Joey looks disappointed. "Aw. No lesbians?"

"Sorry, Joe," I apologize. "But I don't think these guys are really going for it, anyway."

"Not particularly, no," David says.

. . .

Well, this was officially the most boring day of school _ever_. The teachers thought they were being so nice to us, not making us do any work, just because there's the dance tonight—which, I must say, makes no logical sense at all whatsoever—but, in reality, it only bored me out of my mind. I mean, science and history were all right since I got to talk to my friends—who all now think that I'm gay, which is not too great; can't they understand that it was just a joke?—but math was painfully dull. I spent the entire class period squaring three-digit numbers in my head. Screw calculators. Who needs 'em? Then, in language arts, since I had nobody I felt like talking to there either, I found a dictionary and started memorizing the definitions of random words I've never heard before.

Phosphoresce: _to be luminous without sensible heat, as phosphorus._

Boy, was _that_ fun.

But at least it's all over. Oh, wait! Almost forgot: It only gets worse from here. Now that the school day is over, I have to get ready for the dance. I have to wear a _dress_ and put on _makeup_. I don't even know _how_ to put on makeup! So, in other words, I have to get Monica to put makeup on me. Oh, joy.

Speak of the devil. Wait, _devil_? Anyway, Monica walks into my room—where I'm just sitting and thinking instead of getting ready—holding a cell phone. I'm half expecting Monica to start yelling at me to get ready, but when I see the distant look in her eyes, I know something else entirely has gone wrong.

My expression softens when I ask, "What's wrong?"

"Ross and Rachel." She takes a deep breath before continuing, though she still has this unbelieving expression on her face. "They broke up."

* * *

_Oh, the drama! The next chapter has a lot of sad stuff in it, just to warn you guys. Though, I would like to think that I'll include enough funny scenes to still make it interesting._

_So, I'm not really sure about the rest of you, but I'm about ninety-nine percent certain that Lobstersaremyfriends hates me right about now. I mean, just look at that username! I'm sorry, Lobstersaremyfriends. Please don't kill me!_

_Well, despite the horrible ending, I hope you guys enjoyed!_


	22. The Dance - Part II

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_**Mondlercrazy0508: **__That whole "laughing and getting strange looks from people" thing is definitely common for me. And it's generally my brother giving me strange looks, too. :D_

_**Sweet Sugarrrush: **__You're probably more tired than I am funny, though I'm glad to hear I gave you a good laugh._

_**Lobstersaremyfriends: **__This may sound really pathetic or weird or something to that effect, but every time I saw that there was a new review for the last chapter, I was scared it was going to be you because I was scared of seeing that I had ruined this story for you or that you now hate me or something.  
I was much relieved when I actually read your review.  
I'm very glad you believe in Phoebe-ism. I think it's a good lifestyle.  
As for the breakup, I have many reasons for it—some of which I cannot tell you at this time, as they would be huge spoilers. I think the simplest reason I can share is simply because it happened on the show, so I think it's very much possible for it to happen in the universe of __New School__ as well. Also, I've been more or less trying to parody events from the show through this story. For example, the fact that Phoebe met Mike through being set up with him was used not only on the show but also in this story.  
About the relationship clichés: I know absolutely nothing about relationships, how they work, or what it's like to be in one. When I was trying to write about that, I found that everything I was writing sounded so cliché, as the clichés are all I know. Eventually I resolved to just making fun of the clichés instead of trying to get rid of them all.  
I ship Blunz and David, too! Wait, am I allowed to ship myself with someone? Shipping confuses me, to be honest. Oh, what the hell, I ship us! :D_

_**Spitfire303: **__Thanks for your review. I'm glad to see you're liking the story.  
I know I could just PM all of you, but that just sounds like more work for me, and I'm lazy, so . . . yeah. But thanks for the suggestion, nonetheless._

_Since I already wrote it, here's my explanation for why I broke up the Lobsters (though, there's more explanation in the actual story later):_

_The main reason I split up the Lobsters is basically just so I can introduce more characters such as Emily and Joshua and whomever else Ross and Rachel dated. Plus, they're only teenagers. The chances of them staying together until adulthood are very slim, especially considering who they are. They're Ross and Rachel, for crying out loud! They're supposed to have issues. It's their thing. They wouldn't be the Lobsters without having a few bumps in the road, right?_

_My dad is a huge fan of the Lobsters, and he says that it's their issues that he admires most. He's always loved the way that they're able to go through so much but still wind up together in the end._

_(Emphasis on "wind up together in the end". That's a hint. Well, maybe a little more than a hint.)_

_So, yeah. I just felt the need to justify my case for splitting them up. Of course, you guys haven't even seen the half of it yet. There is much more drama ahead. So . . . um . . . I hope you guys enjoy?_

* * *

The news hits me like a punch to the gut. I feel the need to stand up just so I can sit down. "Wha—what?" I ask, believing this as much as I still believe in Santa Claus: not even a little bit.

Monica runs a hand through her hair as she speaks. "They apparently got into this huge fight, and then Rachel said that she wanted to go on a break."

"Wait, a fight?" I ask. "About what?"

"Ross mentioned something on the phone about Rachel focusing more on school and trying to get a better job than on their relationship." Monica lets out a heavy sigh. "Rachel doesn't want to come to the dance tonight, but I managed to convince Ross to come so I can talk about what happened with him. Plus, it might cheer him up a little to be in the party atmosphere."

Still trying to remain hopeful, I say, "Wait, maybe this isn't a _real_ breakup. Maybe when Rachel said she wanted a 'break', she meant just that: a _break_. As in, they'll get back together some time in the future."

"Maybe," Monica says, not sounding convinced, "but I doubt it. Ross sounded pretty upset on the phone."

I shake my head to myself. "Well, this is . . . this is just . . ."

"A load of crap?" Monica finishes for me.

I nod. "Yeah, pretty much." I start biting at my thumbnail without even realizing it. "I mean, _I_ set them up. I can't help but feel this is . . . _my_ fault."

Monica immediately takes the seat next to me. "No, of course it's not your fault!" she says quickly. "What you did—setting us all up—was wonderful and great. Some relationships just don't work out. I mean, what are the chances of someone _marrying_ their high school sweetheart? It doesn't happen very often."

Well, _that_ doesn't make me feel any better. "Don't say _that_! I don't even want to _think_ about that."

Monica's eyes widen with realization. I lower my gaze to the carpeted floor, refusing to make eye-contact with her out of embarrassment for what I may have just accidentally admitted. "Wait, are you saying . . . ?" she begins, though she seems to struggle with the wording. "You're in love with David, aren't you?"

I finally look up at her. "I don't know. Maybe. But what _is_ love, anyway? It's just a bunch of hormones in the brain, so what does it matter?" Monica gives me a strange look, so I explain, "We're doing this science project about the various hormones in the body." I shake my head to myself again. "Anyway, that's beside the point. We're talking about _Ross _and_ Rachel_ here."

"Right, well, I'm not sure what else there is to talk about," Monica says. "They broke up. What else is there to say?"

"You see, I'm still not entirely sure on that part. Are you _sure_ it was a breakup?" I ask. "I just . . . I can't picture the two of them being all happy and couple-y one day, and the next they've broken up."

"Yeah, but like I already said, Ross . . . he sounded devastated," Monica adds.

"Maybe he doesn't realize it," I point out. "Maybe _he_ thinks it's a breakup, but _Rachel_ just intended a break."

"I don't know," Monica says, unsure. "It's sounds like the kind of thing she would make pretty clear."

"Maybe she was angry," I suggest. "When she suggested the break, I mean. Maybe she was saying things she didn't mean: implied the breakup, but only meant the break."

"What? You're confusing me now," Monica says, clearly baffled by my wording.

"Forget it," I say. "You're probably right. It was probably a breakup, as sad as it sounds. Well, anyway, we still have to get ready for the dance. I mean, we can't let _this_ ruin the night."

"Okay, I guess you're right," Monica agrees. We begin to get ready for the dance, and suddenly the prospect of wearing a dress and putting on makeup doesn't sound quite so torturous, though I don't really understand why.

. . .

To say that I'm nervous would be quite the understatement.

I'll do my best to describe the anxiety I'm feeling, though whatever you're picturing, make it about a thousand times worse, and that's about how I feel at the moment. So, here goes nothing. . . .

My palms are sweating. My stomach is in knots. My throat is dry despite the fact that I chugged down three full bottles of water before we left. I keep stealing glances behind me to make sure nobody can see me—despite knowing that, inevitably, the whole _school_ will be seeing me. Well, everybody who's going to the dance, anyway.

So, yeah. About a thousand times worse than whatever _that_ little description makes you think of. That should do it.

I just can't help it. I feel so uncomfortable. I'm in a _dress_, for crying out loud! I don't think I've ever worn one before, except maybe when I was little—and by _little_, I mean an infant. Back when my parents had full control over what I wore. Back when I was . . . Oh, what's that word? A _girl_?

I can only imagine what the first boy who sees me will say. _"Whoa, that's so weird! You actually look like a she!"_ Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised.

As of right now, I'm walking with Monica down to the gym where the dance is being held. As a group, we all agreed that the boys would head to the dance first so we wouldn't run into them in the halls. Something about the surprise of seeing our dates all dressed up . . . Yeah, something like that. Plus, guys get ready quicker. All they have to do is put on a suit. We have to put on makeup and do our hair and whatnot. Well, I guess we don't _have_ to. In fact, I would've preferred _not_ doing so. But it wasn't really my choice as much as it was _Monica's_.

_We only get four dances a year. May as well do it right._

Yeah, only four a year. For the next two years. Only eight dances. _Only_ eight. Ugh. Seven more of those makeup sessions coming my way. I don't know if I can handle any more of this.

Okay, we've reached the gym. Wait, they're just letting people in. I thought there would be people checking to be sure that we're actually students at this school or dates of students at this school. Okay, whatever. So, we're just going in then. Whatever. We're just going in. And we've reached the door. And we're walking inside the building that's blasting music out of unseen speakers.

I'm astonished at how amazing of a job they were able to pull off on making this ugly gym look so . . . beautiful. Am I overreacting? Because this is truly amazing. The lights are dimmed slightly, and the bleachers are hidden behind tall black curtains. The walls _not_ covered by bleachers are instead covered by black wallpaper so that we're surrounding by four black walls, forming a large black rectangle. These black walls are coated in glow-in-the-dark stick-on stars that glow ever so slightly in the mild level of darkness that fills the room. I don't know why, but I'm completely blown away by the amount of work put into all of this. I mean, it must have taken _hours_ just to put up all those stars. Seriously. There are a _lot_ of them. And they go all the way up to the ceiling, which would require ladder-access.

The next thing I notice after the décor is the food. Along each wall is a long table filled from end to end with snacks and sandwiches and pizza and soda and . . . water? I guess water isn't too exciting, but it's there. And I'm just here to state the facts. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Wait, what? Yeah, I'm _definitely_ not crazy.

The last thing I notice before conversation ceases my thoughts is Chandler walking toward us—followed by David. We all comment on how great the others look, which I guess is normal to do when at a place full of fancily-dressed people. It's not like I would know. As the other three—though mostly Monica and Chandler—engage in conversation, I kind of zone out. It just strikes me as a bit odd that—whereas everybody else has gone for a more formal look—David has decided to come to this dance wearing a bright, lime-green suit. The strangest part about it is the fact that it doesn't even look _bad_. In fact, it looks quite _good_ on him. Surprisingly good. Like, I-didn't-think-he-could-get-any-cuter-until-I-saw- him-just-now good. Cliché, as usual, though I no longer care. It's reality. Sorry if reality is too cliché for you.

I realize very suddenly that I should be listening to the conversation just in case somebody starts talking to _me_. My ears catch Monica's voice as she is halfway through a sentence.

". . . know where he is?"

Chandler replies, "Yeah. He's sulking over by the cheesecake." He points in the direction of one of the food tables—so, basically, in _a_ direction. My eyes—along with Monica's—follow the imaginary line of his pointing to where we spot Ross, somberly hanging out by a large cheesecake. Monica begins walking over to him, and the rest of us follow. Ross is just getting a slice of the cake when Monica gets his attention by tapping him on the shoulder. He turns and forces a smile when he sees the four of us.

Before anyone can greet Ross, Joey appears—carrying a sandwich. Of course.

"Hey, Ross, did you hear?" he asks without preamble. "Gandalf's gonna spike the punch!"

"Or maybe he already has," Chandler adds.

"Okay, first of all," Ross says. "Who's Gandalf? And second: I highly doubt somebody would actually bring alcohol to a _school_ dance. It's probably just some stupid rumor."

"Oh, _really_?" Joey asks, clearly not liking that Ross would question such a thing. "Then why don't you go drink some of that punch? Or, better yet, drink a _lot_ of it. See what effect _that_ has on you."

"Maybe I _will_," Ross replies with an arrogant smile creasing his lips.

Well, that's amazing. All it took to cheer Ross out of his gloomy mood was an argument and his ability to try to prove himself right—or wrong. Let's see how _this_ goes.

He strides confidently over to the punch bowl, grabs a plastic cup from the stack on the table next to the punch, and scoops some punch into the cup. He grins before taking a good, long sip of the red liquid. Once he's emptied the cup, he tosses it into a nearby trashcan. Walking back over to us, he says with a huge smile on his face, "You see? I'm _fine_!"

. . .

Throughout the next hour, Ross drank more and more punch, convinced that it hadn't been spiked. By now, it's pretty clear that he's a little drunk. The worst part is that he's the only one. All the other students—the ones who _believe_ the rumor—are drinking the punch sparingly or are avoiding it altogether. Monica, Chandler, Mike, David, and I are a part of the latter group. Joey, his girlfriend Chloe, Phoebe, and Gandalf himself are a part of the prior group.

Ross is in a whole group of his own.

I've kind of decided to keep an eye on him. It's not like I announced to all my friends that I'm going to be his designated driver or anything like that. It's just . . . I glance over at him every once in a while, making sure he doesn't do anything stupid or get himself—or anyone else—hurt. It seems the others—even David—find his drunkenness amusing, so I've decided to be the responsible one and make sure he doesn't go overboard. As of now, all the others are dancing—something I would never dare do—and I only got out of it by saying that I wanted to get some food. So, here I am, munching on yet another slice of pizza while stealing glances at Ross to be sure he doesn't get himself into any trouble tonight.

But then something else catches my eye: David. It's funny how I always assumed that he was shy, just because he didn't talk to other people much. The only thing holding him back was that horrible stutter, which he's finally gotten rid of for the most part. I'm getting great entertainment at the moment out of watching the once-silent kid dancing to the Cha Cha Slide. But it's not just that. He's not even listening to the tape and doing what everybody else is doing. He's completely making up the dance moves, and it's absolutely hilarious. At one point, when the tape said, "Cha cha real smooth," he started spinning in a circle until he got so dizzy that he almost fell over. You know, he's probably the most outgoing out of _all_ of us, and that's quite a statement considering who some of my friends are.

I decide that it's about time I take another glance over at Ross. It's been long enough. But when I _do_ look over at the tipsy teenaged boy, I'm hit with a shock that makes my eyes widen to the point where I think they're going to pop right out of their sockets.

Ross . . . and Chloe . . . _kissing_?

Oh, my God!

I have to tell Joey.

* * *

_Yay! More cliffhangers!_

_Oh, by the way, I'm actually splitting the dance up into three parts—maybe even four or five—instead of two. It's quite the event, and there's a lot more drama to come, I assure you guys. Mwahaha!_

_That was my attempt at an evil laugh._

_Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed!_


	23. The Dance - Part III

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_**Sweet Sugarrrush: **__I'm glad you liked the chapter.  
I know Ross is supposed to be smart, but he can be pretty stupid sometimes. Also, I thought that him getting drunk was essential for this next chapter, especially since it parallels the original storyline after he and Rachel went on their break._

_**Lobstersaremyfriends: **__I almost want to apologize to you, but your wording made me laugh too hard to do so. I really need to stop laughing at others' expense, but I can't help it. I'm a ginger.  
That's my excuse for everything horrible I do. "Sorry, I'm a ginger."  
Ahem, anyway . . .  
I so desperately want to write a one-shot, and I was actually planning to make it a Lobster-themed one to make up for everything I'm doing to Ross and Rachel's relationship in this story, but I have no idea what to write about. Any ideas I can steal?  
Oh, no! Please don't die! At least, delete your browser history before you do so your family won't see your review and trace the reason of your death back to me. I can't get charged for murder again. I just can't._

_I really should change the cover image for this story since the current one has very little to do with the actual story. Any suggestions? I guess I could just use a random picture of the six Friends . . . or a picture of a school._

_Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy!_

* * *

I roam through the dancing crowd, trying desperately to find Joey. At the same time, I'm wondering if I'm even doing the right thing. Should I confront Ross first? I mean, he _is_ kind of drunk, in his defense. Maybe I shouldn't immediately run off and tell Joey that Ross kissed his girlfriend. Maybe it's not as bad it looks. And what if that's not even what happened? What if _Chloe_ kissed _Ross_? Then what? Should I tell Joey that his girlfriend just cheated on him? And—I can't help but wonder—does Joey even consider cheating to be such a terrible thing? How should _I_ know? Last I checked, he seemed pretty nonchalant about it.

Okay, I thought I was over that. Really, I think it was just karma. Stupid dare! We can't even play _Truth or Dare_ anymore because of that. It's almost kind of funny now that I think about the fact that the very reason we played _Truth or Dare_ in the first place was to find out whether or not Phoebe was homeless. About a month ago, we all found out that she was _indeed_ homeless, and the solution was an abnormally easy one. She's now living with Rachel. The two of them have become so amazingly close in the time since Phoebe moved in. They sometimes seem like sisters. Although, Rachel claims to hate her sisters. She _likes_ Phoebe.

Speaking of things that have happened in the last month or so, my brother visited a few weeks ago. When he saw cat-David, he immediately fell in love with the little feline. I somehow had been able to hide cat-David from new David up until that point, as I never let him come over to my dorm. After being convinced by Monica, I eventually decided to let my brother keep the cat. Seeing as the kitten turned out to be a girl, my brother renamed her Coco because of her chocolate-brown fur. Finally, my boyfriend could visit my dorm.

Lost in my train of thought, I walk straight into Monica.

"Oh, sorry, Mon," I apologize. "Um, do you know where Joey is?"

"Yeah, he just ran off to the sandwich table," she replies. "Why? Is something wrong?"

She must've noticed the look of worry in my eyes. I force it away and plaster a smile on my face. "No reason. I'll be right back." I seriously have no idea why I felt the need to lie. Monica will have to know what's going on sooner or later.

Ignoring the thought and the impeding doubt that going to Joey first is a good idea, I head for the sandwich table. Immediately, I find Joey practically stuffing his mouth full of sandwiches. I sigh and shake my head dismissively before tapping him on the shoulder. He turns and looks at me, trying in his best efforts to swallow quickly so he can speak.

"Hey," he says once the food has finally gone down his throat. "Do you know where Chloe is? I haven't seen her in a while."

Oh, how badly I wish I could answer "no" to that question.

"Um . . . that's kind of what I need to talk to you about," I reply.

He, too, seems to take note of my distraught discomposure. "What is it?" he asks with clear worry in his voice.

I'm just going to come right out and say it. I take a deep breath first. "I saw her and Ross kissing."

Joey was in the middle of reaching for another sandwich when I said that. His hand freezes above the sandwich table. "What?" he asks, clear hurt in his eyes.

"I mean, I don't know who _initiated_ the, um— the kiss. I just saw them . . . in the middle of it," I say, almost in Ross's defense. I don't know why I'm trying to defend Ross. Maybe because I told myself that I would watch him and make sure he didn't get himself into any trouble, and the minute I looked away, he got himself into trouble. Wait, hold on a minute there. Am I blaming _myself_ for this? Am I just going to blame myself for _everything_? I can't keep feeling guilty for my friends' mistakes. It's not a good habit.

Joey's look of hurt morphs into one of anger, and an odd part of me worries that his anger is directed at _me_. "Where are they?" he asks in a voice that doesn't even sound like him. There's just so much anger in those three words, I can hardly believe it.

"By the entrance," I reply. Joey immediately begins walking off. I move to catch up to him. He doesn't stop, even when I continue to speak. "But maybe we don't know the whole story. Maybe we should think about this rationally. Maybe . . ." I trail off when I realize that Joey isn't listening to a word I'm saying. And, frankly, I have no idea where I was going with that argument or what point I was trying to make. I guess I was just stalling. Joey picks up his pace as he heads for the gym's entrance. His hands are down by his sides, clenched into fists. That's the part that worries me the most. I freeze in my tracks and just watch Joey walk away. Several seconds later, I come to my senses and run to catch up with him again. I push my way through the crowd until I see Joey again. Except, now, he's talking to two other people: Ross and Chloe. It's definitely an argument, based on their mannerisms and hand gestures. I move closer so I can hear what they're all saying, though I keep my distance and hide myself in the crowd.

I hear Chloe and Ross both giving back-to-back apologies to Joey, though I'm finding it difficult to hear whatever else they're saying or anything Joey is saying in reply. I try to move closer, but I somehow wind up tripping over someone's foot. I stumble forward, lose my balance, and fall. Out of pure instinct, I reach out my arms to brace my fall, but that only leaves me accidentally elbowing myself in the stomach when I land flat on my face, my forehead banging onto the cold hard floor.

I feel a sharp pain in my head and a gut-wrenching feeling in my stomach. _Gut-wrenching_ . . . literally, almost. Oh, I think I might throw up. Or pass out. I would really rather pass out right now, to be honest. At least then I wouldn't feel any of this pain.

"Are you all right?" a panicky female voice laced with a British accent asks me. I look up to find an arm extended down to me. I grab the British girl's hand and let her pull me up.

"Um, yeah," I say, though I know it's a lie. Just the effort of speaking manages to amplify both the pain in my head and the sick feeling in my stomach. "I'm fine. Just . . . a little clumsy."

"Well, that was quite the fall," the British girl continues. "Are you sure you don't need to see the nurse?"

"I'm sure," I say with a bit of harshness in my tone. Why won't this British chippy leave me alone?

Wait—_chippy_? What the hell is a chippy? Isn't that, like, another word for a prostitute? This is what I've resorted to? Name calling? Boy, I am _bitter_ when I'm in pain.

"I have to . . . go see something," I say, trying to get the British girl to stop worrying. I have to make sure Joey doesn't punch Ross or something. Well, I doubt he would. It's just, he seemed pretty angry.

But when I look around for Joey, Ross, and Chloe, I don't see any sign of them. Maybe they went outside. It's kind of noisy in here, so it would make sense if they did.

With one hand on my stomach and the other laid against my forehead, I head outside to find Ross being yelled at by one of our school administrators. I immediately drop both hands back down by my sides, the pain somehow far from my focus. Oh, what now? Can't this guy catch a break today? Poor Ross.

I walk closer until I can make out some of the administrator's words. Okay, I think he just said, "intoxicated". This is definitely _not_ good. I ease my way closer, though the administrator is too busy yelling and Ross is too busy being yelled at to notice. I hear more of the school administrator's words now.

"I'm going to call your mother to come and pick you up," he says harshly.

That's when I swoop in. I walk quickly toward them and argue, "Wait, you can't call his mother. He's an adult."

"Actually," Ross cuts in, "I'm seventeen."

"Oh" is all I can think to say after that.

"And he's still under the legal drinking age anyway," the administrator adds. He pulls out a cell phone and requests that Ross tell him his mother's number. The administrator dials before walking off and disappearing around the corner of the building.

I have so many questions, but the first that I choose to ask is "Where are Joey and Chloe?"

"They left," Ross says simply, looking down at the ground. "Joey . . . he's pretty mad at me. He kind of declared that we're no longer friends."

"So, what _happened_, anyway?" I ask, desperate for more answers.

Ross suddenly looks up at me. "What do you mean? I got drunk. Apparently, the punch _had_ been spiked. Boy, am _I_ an idiot."

I suppose all the yelling must have sobered him up because he doesn't sound drunk at _all_ now. "No, I mean, with the kiss," I say. "What happened?"

Ross lets out a heavy sigh before explaining. "Chloe must've seen me looking depressed because she came over to me asking what was wrong, so I told her about the breakup. And then . . . she just _kissed_ me. It was like it didn't even _occur_ to her that she had a boyfriend. And, well, I guess I was so drunk that I didn't even realize it was wrong, so I didn't pull away."

"Wait, let me get this straight," I say, suddenly angry. "Joey got mad at _you_ because his _girlfriend_ kissed _you_?" I shake my head. "How is _that_ fair?"

"Honestly," Ross says, "I think he's just looking for an excuse to be mad or some way to express his anger." He lets out another sigh before continuing. "Anyway, that administrator guy must have heard us yelling and noticed how drunk I sounded. He told me to come outside, and that's when Joey and Chloe left. Apparently, I was the only drunk one at the dance—being the idiot that I am and not realizing that the rumor was true—so the administrator thinks _I_ brought the alcohol. Well, for _that_ reason and also the fact that I'm not a student here. He thinks I just came here to crash the party and get everybody drunk."

"Well, then he's an idiot," I say. "Look around. Nobody's drunk. Well, except for you. But if _you_ brought the alcohol, does he really think you would be stupid enough to get drunk?"

"Apparently," Ross says.

The administrator returns then, giving Ross a sharp look. "Your mother will be here in an hour." With that, he walks off.

To me, Ross says, "I think I'm just going to wait out here."

"I'll wait with you," I say.

"No, you go back inside," he urges me. "I'm sure the others are wondering where you are."

That's when I remember: I have a boyfriend. I've barely even _spoken_ to the guy all night. He so desperately wanted me to come to this dance with him, and I've spent barely any time with him. I know there will be more dances, but there's no guarantee that David will still be my boyfriend by then. The thought makes me feel absolutely terrible. I hate the fact that it's probably true. There's a good chance that David and I will not stay together forever—or even for a long time, for that matter. This is a high school relationship. High school relationships don't last.

Most of the time.

At least I still have _some_ hope. I mean, what would even be the _point_ of being with him if I had _no_ faith in our relationship?

I realize very suddenly that I haven't replied to what Ross has said. "Okay," I say, "but I'll come back to check up on you. Don't catch a cold." And, with that, I head back inside. As soon as I do, I'm immediately greeted by David and Monica who both appear to be heading for the door.

"Oh, hey," Monica says. "We were just looking for you."

"Why were you outside?" David asks.

"Um, I was talking to Ross," I reply awkwardly.

"Why was_ Ross_ outside?" Monica asks, clearly confused.

"It's a _long_ story," I say. "Maybe you guys should come outside so we can explain it to you." Monica and David both still look confused, but they follow me outside nonetheless.

"So, what's the explanation?" Monica asks, looking more at Ross than at me.

We begin to explain. I can tell that Monica and David want to ask questions, but they both seem to realize that it would be better to not interrupt. Finally, when we're done explaining, Monica has only _one_ thing to say.

"Great," she says with obvious sarcasm. "Now I get to face my _mother_."

* * *

_I hear that Judy Geller is not an easy character to write. Well, that sucks for me considering I have to write her in the next chapter. This is going to suck._

_You know, I'm really making Ross's day a terrible one. Just to warn you guys: It only gets worse. Seriously, it gets worse than this. Poor Rossy._

_Well, anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed!_


	24. The Dance - Part IV

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_**Lobstersaremyfriends: **__I might just steal that idea. I do enjoy writing thoughts. I mean, even in serious situations, thoughts are naturally funny. Thanks for the idea. :D  
I feel bad for giving Ross such a crappy day. I wish I could say it only gets better from here, but that would be one huge lie.  
I'm glad you're enjoying the story, even with all the crap I'm putting Ross through._

_**Sweet Sugarrrush: **__I hate writing characters that I despise, so Judy Geller will be a tough one.  
I actually have a whole list of characters to introduce in this story, and somehow Ursula was not listed. I just added her. Thanks for the suggestion._

_**Prof-the F.R.I.E.N.D.S fanatic: **__It's almost kind of funny how much more loved Mondler is than the Lobsters. At least, it seems that way. Lobstersaremyfriends probably hates you right now, though._

_**Spitfire303: **__Ugh. Judy is such a bitch. I hate her more than I could imagine myself ever hating a person. And I hate myself for bringing her into this story. Poor Mon._

_**Mondlerceazy0508: **__You want Mondler, you say? Well, you are definitely going to enjoy this chapter (hint, hint)._

_Sorry for the late update. I was away from home for a while with little time to work on my writing._

_Well, anyway, I hope you guys enjoy!_

* * *

"I mean," Monica continues, "I came to this boarding school for the very reason that I wanted to get _away_ from her."

"Oh, come on," Ross says. "She can't be _that_ bad."

"Of course _you_ would say that. She _loves_ you," Monica replies with clear jealousy in her crystal blue eyes.

"Mon, she loves you, too," Ross argues. "She just has a . . . _different_ way of showing it."

"Yeah, I guess that's _one_ way to word it," Monica says dully.

. . .

For the next hour, I wound up mostly hanging out outside with Ross, David following me during every one of my trips outside. Chandler did the same with Monica. I still feel bad for barely spending any of my time at this dance with David.

As of now, we're all sitting outside and almost having our own sort of party out here. Honestly, I think it's more fun than being thrown into the noisy crowd. Phoebe and Mike are out here as well. Even the British chippy—whose name I found out is Emily—came out here a little while ago to make sure I was okay. I don't know how it happened, but the pain pretty much vanished. Maybe wounds just need some cool fresh air to heal. When Emily noticed Ross's distress, we eventually wound up explaining the whole situation to her—which is odd considering we don't even know her, but she kind of forced it out of us. She seems very caring . . . but in kind of an annoying way. Anyway, she seemed pretty sympathetic to Ross's situation tonight and kind of invited herself to stay out here with us. I've got this odd suspicion that she has a crush on Ross. It's probably not true, but how should _I_ know?

Suddenly, the darkness of the night is pierced with twin, bright, white lights. Headlights. The car drives past and heads for the parking lot nearest to the gymnasium.

"I guess that's her," Monica says with a sigh.

It isn't long before we see the figure of a woman walking toward our little group. It's impossible to see her face in the dim light of the night, but we all know it's her. Well, those of us who know her, anyway. I doubt the British chippy recognizes her silhouette. It's not until Mrs. Geller is only about ten feet away that her face is clear. Oh, she looks angry. That's not good.

"So," she begins once she's within earshot, walking closer to her son and daughter with every word, "I hear you let your brother get intoxicated." She glares right at Monica.

I arch an eyebrow. "_That's_ what you heard?" Monica holds up her hand to tell me to stop—telling me that she'll handle it. I let out a sigh of reluctant acceptance and do as told, keeping quiet. But before Monica can say a word, Ross is speaking in her defense.

"Actually, Mom, it was _my_ fault. Don't blame Monica. _I_ was the one doing the drinking."

"And," Chandler adds, "_Joey_ was the one who dared him to drink."

"_And_," I say, suddenly unable to stop myself, "_I_ was supposed to be watching him, and I let him get drunk, so I guess you could say this is all _my_ fault." A wave of guilt hits me when I realize how true it is. Or, at least, I _think_ it's true.

"Yes, but Monica is his _sister_," Mrs. Geller counters. "She is responsible for him at times like this."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Chandler snaps. His face turns red from anger, and he clenches his fists at his sides. "Do you not _hear_ yourself? Ross is almost an _adult_ now. He's nobody's responsibility except his own. No offense, Ross."

"None taken," Ross says quickly before Chandler resumes his rant.

"You know, Mrs. Geller, I sometimes get the feeling that you don't even love your daughter. Well, _I_ love her, so . . ." His eyes widen as he realizes what he has just said. Monica's eyes widen a bit as well, and she appears to be trying to suppress a smile. Phoebe gasps and covers her mouth with her hand. Ross, Mike, and David all let their mouths hang open. Emily looks . . . kind of confused. Of course she does. She has no idea what's going on; she barely even _knows_ us! My reaction is surprisingly one of fear. Fear that Chandler will freak out, have a panic attack, or take it back. Fear that Monica's mother won't approve. And—somewhere deep inside—fear of what David's thinking right now; though, I'm not sure why I fear it.

Finally, after several long seconds of us all frozen this way, Mrs. Geller smiles. She gives Monica and Chandler an approving look. No, that can't be right. Mrs. Geller . . . _approving_ of something? I must be seeing things. In the kindest voice I've ever heard this lady speak in, she says, "Well, Monica, you never told me you have a boyfriend."

That's when the most surprising thing happens. Chandler appears to calm almost instantly, and he smiles. Reaching over, he takes Monica hand in his and grins at his girlfriend. She returns his smile.

"Well, she does," Chandler says with a slight smirk.

All anger Mrs. Geller had shown a minute ago has completely dissipated. "That's wonderful!" she says, astounded. "I was afraid this day would never come." I can't help rolling my eyes a little. She continues: "I mean, after that horrible breakup with that Kip boy—"

"Please don't mention Kip," Monica interrupts.

"Well, anyway," Mrs. Geller says, now speaking to Ross, "I have to take you back to your apartment now."

"Right," Ross says sadly. Speaking to the rest of us, he adds, "I'll see you guys at the coffeehouse later?" It sounded more like a question than a statement.

"Sure."

"Yeah."

"See ya, Ross."

We all have our different ways of saying goodbye, though I think Emily's is the most _interesting_.

"Bye, Ross. Oh, and forget that Rachel girl. She doesn't deserve you."

The reminder of his situation with Rachel doesn't appear to make Ross feel better at _all_, but he offers a shy smile of gratitude before leaving for the parking lot with his mother.

"That went surprisingly well," Monica says once they're out of sight.

Chandler flashes her a sweet smile and adds, "Yeah, it did."

I can't help smiling when I see them gazing lovingly into each other's eyes, and I realize that _I_ helped them get together. I guess I can't be _too_ bad at this matchmaking stuff. Sure, Ross and Rachel are broken up, but Monica and Chandler love each other, and Phoebe and Mike are still together. And then there's me and David. Though, who knows how long _that_ will last? Apparently, people tend not to marry their high school sweethearts, especially when that high school sweetheart is the person's _first_ sweetheart.

This is bumming me out more than it should. I should've known going _into_ this relationship that it wouldn't last forever. But, instead, it didn't occur to me until just earlier today.

Monica must have noticed my discomfort because she asks if I'm all right.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I lie. "Um, can I speak to you for a minute?"

Monica nods. "Yeah, sure."

I figure, she'll probably have some good advice for my little predicament. She's pretty good at the advice. We head inside the gym and go to a slightly less crowded corner of the large room.

"What's up?" she asks when we finally get there. "Is something wrong?"

I let out a sigh. "I don't know. I'm just . . . freaking out." She looks confused, so I explain: "Remember earlier today, just before we left, when you said that . . . um, when you said that high school relationships don't really last?"

"Oh, don't tell me that's still bothering you," Monica says in what could be either concern or agitation. I can't tell. Maybe it's both.

"How could it not?" I counter. "How can I possibly just _accept_ the fact that David and I will inevitably break up?" I'm surprised to find my voice wavering slightly.

Monica sighs heavily. "You just have to realize that there are other guys out there."

In an almost childlike voice, I reply, "But I don't _want_ any other guy!"

Monica frowns in sympathy. "This sounds like something you should talk about with David."

My eyes widen. "No, no, no! I—I can't do that. David can't know about this. He'll think I'm crazy."

"If you make it clear to him that this is really bothering you, then he'll understand," Monica says smartly. "Really, he will."

I chew at a fingernail for a while before I finally reply. "I hate it when you're right," I mutter.

"Sometimes," she says, "_I_ hate it, too."

"Well, I guess I'll talk to him after the dance."

"What?" Monica asks, clearly surprised by this statement. "No, you have to talk to him now, or at least as soon as possible."

"And after the dance _is_ as soon as possible," I argue. "Let's just _try_ to enjoy the rest of the dance."

Monica exhales sharply. "Okay, fine," she gives in. "_Your _relationship—_your_ decision."

I give her a quick nod in reply. "All right then." And, with that, we head back outside to join the remainder of our little group for the rest of the dance, though I just know that I won't be able to enjoy the night with all the paranoid thoughts going through my head.

* * *

_I hope you guys enjoyed! The next chapter is a bit emotional, so be prepared._

_Once again, I'm sorry for the late update. Hopefully, the next chapter will be out soon. No promises, though. Emotional stuff is not easy to write. At least, for me, it isn't._


	25. The Dance - Part V

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_You guys are amazing! You all reviewed so quickly! I'm so happy right now! Look at all these exclamation marks!_

_**Mondlercrazy0508: **__Your review made me laugh at several points.  
I love long reviews! And to think: I got a long review for a short chapter. I feel very lucky right now. :D_

_**Spitfire303: **__Ugh. Paranoia sucks. I once rejected a guy because the thought in my head at the time was that I didn't want to inevitably break up with him. Seriously.  
I'm starting to think that being a forward-thinker isn't the greatest thing._

_**Sweet Sugarrrush: **__Yeah, in your face, Judy! XD  
Did the British chippy even have any lines in the last chapter? I can't remember. Of course, I could just go back and read it to find out, but I'm lazy._

_**Lobstersaremyfriends: **__As for Judy, I wanted to have her be mean to Monica to fit her character, but then I found how awful I was feeling for writing that way. Then, I remembered how happy Judy always was when she saw Monica actually with someone.  
Then, I still had that request to have Mondler say their "I love you"s, so I got an idea.  
Judy yells at Monica. Chandler defends Monica. Chandler accidentally says that he loves Monica. Mondler fluff commences. Blah, blah, blah.  
(That's essentially the wording I used in my notes for the previous chapter. I don't take my notes very seriously.)_

_**R. Gatz:**__ XD Will do.  
Oh, wait—I just did! :D_

_So, this chapter doesn't really take place during the dance, but I still call it "The Dance – Part V". I really don't care._

_Well, anyway, I hope you guys enjoy the chapter! Ah, who am I kidding? You guys are gonna hate me after this chapter. But some things . . . they just have to happen. Sorry._

* * *

Well, the dance was pretty fun—I guess. Sort of. I suppose.

Okay, not really.

I tried to enjoy it; I really did. But I just couldn't stop thinking about the conversation I'll be having with David very soon. Monica was right: I should've just gotten it out of the way. As of now, the school administrators are herding everybody out of the gym. The dance is over, but some kids are still trying to loot the snack bar before they leave. Some teachers came a while ago to take the punch bowl away. I wonder what they did with it.

We all head out of the gymnasium, planning to go to Central Perk and meet up with Ross. But I have one little thing I need to do first. I tell the others to go on ahead, and I ask David to come to my dorm with me to talk about something.

"A—actually," he says, "there—there's something _I_ need to— I need to talk to _you_ about."

I take note of the stuttering. Nowadays, David only stutters when he's really nervous about something. This, in turn, make _me_ nervous. We silently head for my dorm. When we finally arrive, we head inside and sit on the couch near the door.

"So . . . ," I begin, though I have no idea where I'm going with this sentence. "You, um . . . You can go first."

"O—okay," he says reluctantly, looking down in disappointment. It's clear enough that he isn't ready to say what he has to say. But he continues nonetheless: "Re—remember earlier how, um— how Chandler said that . . . _thing_ about Monica?"

It takes me a minute to figure out what he's talking so vaguely about. "You mean when he told her he loves her?" I say, trying to help him along.

"Um, yeah. That." I can see him trying to control his breathing, a trick that helps him keep his stuttering at bay. "When he . . . said that, it—it made me realize"—he pauses, glancing down at the ground before looking back up at me and smiling—"that I love you."

"Wha—what?" I stutter in reply, the true reality of what he has just said not yet hitting me. But then my mind finally processes the meaning of the words, and my jaw unhinges itself. Yet, once again, all I can think to say is "_What?_"

"I, uh— I said that I love—," David begins, only to have me cut him off mid-sentence.

"No, I heard you," I interrupt. I suck in a deep breath, then slowly let it go. "Wow," I say, though I'm not exactly sure what emotion the word is supposed to convey. Surprise? No, that's not it. That's the weird thing. I'm _not_ surprised. It's almost as if I saw this coming. But . . . I didn't.

Did I?

Maybe I did. But maybe I just didn't realize it until now.

"Wow," I repeat.

A fear-stricken look crosses David's face. "Are—are you okay?"

"What?" I look up at him when I realize that I was staring at my feet. "Oh, um . . . yeah." I form a lopsided grin.

David's eyebrows crawl around like little furry bugs on his face, forming expression after expression, representing the boy's mixed emotions. "What does— what exactly does that mean?" He swallows in anticipation of what I'm about to say.

"Oh!" I say, suddenly realizing what I'm supposed to say at this point. God, I'm acting like such an idiot right now. I guess it's just the shock. Boy, I do _not_ handle news very well—good or bad. "Sorry, I mean . . . I meant to say . . ." I shake my head to myself. _David's_ supposed to be the awkward one with the speech impediment. Not _me_. I let out a small laugh, though I have no idea why. Probably some reaction to nervousness. Finally, I say, "I love you, too."

David lets out a long breath of relief. He smiles, forming an almost giddy expression. It looks like the kid just got out of a life-threatening situation, and he's lost his mind from the euphoria of the relief. Funny. Sounds more like something _I_ would do: losing my mind. I guess we've kind of switched places momentarily.

"Oh, thank God," he finally says, making me laugh. After a moment, he continues: "So, what did _you_ need to talk about?"

Hmm . . . that's a good question. What _was_ it that I was going to talk about? I can't remember. Oh well. Probably doesn't matter anymore anyway.

"Forget about it," I say with a smile, shaking my head dismissively. I check my nonexistent watch. "Well, we better head off to Central Perk now. Don't wanna leave the others waiting."

. . .

David and I walk through the doors to Central Perk with two huge smiles on our faces. Finally, this day is taking a good turn. _Something_ good has happened today.

I start to get the feeling that something _else_ good is about to happen when I spot Ross sitting on the big orange couch with a phone to his ear and a huge smile of his own on his face. I silently make my way closer to the group, David following behind me. Monica, Chandler, Phoebe, and Mike are all there. I guess the British chippy must've left at some point. I find a chair and bring it over to the group, taking a seat. David does the same. In a whisper, I ask Monica what's going on.

"He got a call from Rachel," she whispers. "And he's smiling, which is a good sign."

"From Rachel?" I ask, sure I didn't hear her right. "From _Rachel_?"

Just then, Ross says goodbye and hangs up. He puts away the phone and smiles brightly. We're all silent for a moment before bombarding him with questions. He silences us with a simple hand gesture that looks almost as if he's trying to squish an imaginary object in his hands, though it's clear that he wants us to quiet down.

"Well, what did she say?" an impatient Monica asks.

"She said"—Ross paused and grinned—"that she never _really_ wanted a break. She wants to get back together with me! Isn't that great?"

I can't suppress my smile at that news. "That _is_ great, Ross! Congratulations!" I tell him happily. Oh, man. This day just gets better and better! I'm not even being sarcastic when I say that—I mean, _think_ that. Oh, whatever. That's not really important right now. Silly technicalities.

The others follow suit with more congratulating. This is truly amazing! Jeez, and I thought this was turning into the worst day ever. Well, things sure have taken a turn for the _better_. I smirk at the thought.

Ross cuts into the congratulating. "Hey, so, Rach told me that she could meet us at your dorm"—he looked at Monica and me—"if that's all right with you guys."

Monica and I reply at the same time.

"Sure."

"That's fine."

"Great," Ross replies. "Well, she said she would be there in about fifteen minutes." That's when something occurs to me: If Rachel isn't _here_, in Central Perk, then where _is_ she? My only guess is her house. I know that it's pretty close to the school, so fifteen minutes sounds like a reasonable amount of time that it could take for her to get there. Ross continues: "So, I guess we better head off now—if that's all right with you guys." I laugh inwardly at his use of the same exact wording.

We all agree and head out of the coffeehouse, headed for my dorm.

. . .

It takes us about ten minutes to get there, leaving us approximately five minutes until Rachel shows up. We all head inside the dorm, and it suddenly occurs to me that our "little" group isn't quite so little anymore. There's Ross, Monica, Chandler, Phoebe, Mike, David, and me—and that's not even _all_ of us. There's also Rachel and Joey and I guess the British chippy is trying to join our group now, too. I remember a time back when it was just Monica, Chandler, and me. I remember being jealous and paranoid when we met Joey, fearing that I was going to be replaced. Well, _that_ sure was stupid of me to think. Now, there's ten of us in all, and I'm still just as much in this group as ever. My only fear right now is that Joey and Ross's friendship has been ruined. Ugh—stupid Chloe, ruining everything.

Anyway . . . I'm getting a bit off track here.

The seven of us find our places in the dorm. Chandler, Monica, and Ross take the couch. Phoebe and Mike sit in nearby chairs. I stay standing near the door with David. It's both kind of weird and kind of cute how he always seems to be following me around, even when I'm not really talking to him or anything. He just likes being near me, I guess; and _I_ like being near _him_. Especially after that . . . conversation. Oh, why am I being all subtle? I love him! And I love that I love him! This is such a great feeling! A feeling so great, I have to end every sentence with an exclamation point!

Ross goes to answer the door when he hears a knock. As soon as the door swings open, Rachel storms in, not looking too happy. Wait, what? What's going on? I thought we were being happy for once!

She glares at Ross for a moment before speaking.

"You _kissed_ Joey's girlfriend?" she asks without preamble.

"Uh-oh" I hear Chandler say. Before I can even register what's happening, we're all moving into another room—Monica's bedroom. Well, all of us except Ross and a furious Rachel. Chandler closes the door behind us and then presses his ear up against the door.

I roll my eyes. "Seriously, Chandler?"

"Come on!" he urges. "Don't you wanna know what's going on?"

I ponder that for only a moment before pressing my ear up against the door as well. Monica, Phoebe, Mike, and David all follow suit. We're a pathetic group, the six of us. Truly pathetic. With great effort, we all manage to find room for ourselves. I hear voices from the other side of the door, though it takes a minute for me to be able to make out any words. The first decipherable words come from Rachel.

"I don't _care_ if _she_ kissed _you_!" I hear her exclaim. She pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice is calmed down a bit—just a _bit_. "Ross, you kissed someone else. Or _she_ kissed _you_—whatever. The point is: you should've told me this on the phone."

"I know," Ross says shamefully, sounding disappointed in himself. "You're right: I should have. I'm so, _so_ sorry. I . . . I just wasn't thinking about it at the time."

"Yeah, well, why _not_?" Rachel cuts in. "A girl kisses you, and you just act like it never _happened_?"

"I—I don't know. I don't know what was going through my head," Ross says apologetically. "I—I guess I was just so amazingly over-the-top happy to hear you on the phone, saying that you wanted to get back together, that the kiss was completely out of my mind at that point."

It seems like a reasonable excuse to me, but Rachel still sounds furious when she finally replies. "God, and to have to hear it from _Joey_, while in the hallway, coming over to see _you_!"

Finally, some explanation! So _Joey_ was the one to spill the secret, huh? Not too surprising, considering how pissed he is at Ross at the moment. Is it just me, or does it sound like Rachel and Joey are making a bit too big of a deal out of this? _Chloe_ kissed _Ross_. Come on, people! Use some common sense! _Ross_ did nothing wrong!

I wonder if today is National Put Down Ross Day. It sure seems like it.

Ross and Rachel continue to argue—and by _"argue"_, I mean that Rachel continues to yell at Ross and that Ross continues to apologize even though he didn't really do anything wrong—for a long, long, _long_ time. How long has it been? Hours? Days? _Years?_ Sure feels like years.

Well, at least I know that they'll have to stop at _some_ point to go to bed. We've got school tomorrow, for crying out loud!

Wait, no we don't. I completely forgot: Today was the last day of school before Thanksgiving Break. Oh, great. We're gonna be stuck hiding out in Monica's bedroom for the rest of our _lives_!

Well, more like a week—but close enough!

Okay, I doubt they're going to argue for the _entire_ week. At some point, someone's gonna get hungry or tired or _something_. The arguing should end soon . . . right? It doesn't sound like it, though. It sounds more like there's no end to this argument. The two of them are just going to make the same points over and over and over and over . . . (this could go on for a while) . . . and over again. Meanwhile, I'm starting to get pretty hungry. I really should've eaten more at the dance. I haven't had dinner, and I'm starting to get the feeling that I never will. I'll just sit in here, listening to these two argue, for the rest of my life—until I slowly starve to death, and then my corpse will rot and rot and . . .

Okay, the hunger is definitely starting to go to my head.

As if reading my mind, David asks, "Is anybody else getting _really_ hungry?"

A bit to my surprise, everyone else in the room replies with a "yes".

"Well," I say, "does anybody happen to have any food on them?" Everybody shakes their head. I let out a long sigh. "Well, this sucks." I fall into a chair in hopelessness, followed by another sigh. "Anybody got any bright ideas?"

"Maybe we should just go out there," Mike suggests. He's then met by five angry stares. "Come on, they're not just gonna let us starve in here."

Oh, silly Mike. "Any _better_ ideas?" I ask. "Preferably, an idea that won't end with Rachel _killing_ all six of us." I'm already worried for Ross's safety, being in the same room as Angry Rachel; I don't want to put my _own_ life in danger, too.

That's when Phoebe speaks up. "Oh, we could play cards!" She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a full deck of cards. "Wait, these are the trick deck." She puts the deck back and pulls out another from her other pocket.

Typical Pheebs.

"Perfect!" I say happily. Okay, so it doesn't solve the _hunger_ problem, but at least we have a way to pass the time. "What should we play? Go Fish? Crazy Eights?"

"Ooh, Crazy Eights!" Phoebe exclaims excitedly. "I love crazy things!"

"Crazy Eights it is, then," I declare. Everybody else goes with it—no arguments or disagreements. This is such a great feeling! It's like I'm their leader or dictator or something. They're just going along with whatever I say. It's awesome! No wonder Monica likes to be in control so much.

. . .

Ten minutes in, and I've realized that this is the most boring game ever. Oh, it never ends! Can't it just end already?

Well, anything is better than listening to Ross and Rachel argue. I mean, they're still arguing, and I can still hear it, but I'm trying not to focus on it too much. At some point, the two of them are going to run out of points to make . . . or maybe they'll realize that they've been making the same points over and over again for the past several hours. Seriously, this conversation of theirs is going absolutely _nowhere_, accomplishing absolutely _nothing_.

Another fifteen minutes go by before the others begin to show signs of boredom. We all let out tired sighs as Chandler places an eight of hearts onto the pile—(Seriously, how many eights has that boy _gotten_? I didn't even realize there were that many eights in the _deck_!)—and calls out clubs. The enthusiasm has been completely wiped from Phoebe's expression as she places a two of clubs on top of Chandler's eight of hearts. It's my turn, and I don't have a two or a club or an eight or anything that I need. I exhale sharply in frustration. Angrily, I draw card after card until I get what I need: a two of spades. I slap the card down onto the pile.

Bored yet? I sure am. That's the only reason I'm even _describing_ the game: just to show you how amazingly boring it is.

Somebody shoot me, 'cause I'm bored to tears.

Huh. That reminds me of Weird Al's "Skipper Dan". The song pleasantly runs through my head, entertaining me and bringing me out of the doldrums of this crazy night. I kind of zone out a bit, which is perfectly fine with me and very enjoyable. Of course, it's not exactly a _happy_ song, but it's definitely funny, which helps.

_Look at those hippos, they're wiggling their ears,  
Just like they've done for the last fifty years.  
Now I'm laughing at my own jokes, but I'm crying inside,  
'Cause I'm working on the Jungle Cruise ride._

"Ground Control to Major Tom." Chandler's voice snaps me back to reality. I look up at him.

"Huh?"

"You zoned off," he says dully. "It's your turn."

"Oh" is all I can think to say. Very typical of Chandler to reference "Space Oddity". Any other time, I would laugh and maybe tease him a little for it—though, now, I don't feel like I even have the energy. I take my turn in silence. We've stopped attempting conversation about twenty minutes ago. It was just a lame distraction from what's really going on here—from the reality of the situation that we all know is the evitable: Rachel is going to break up with Ross. She hasn't said any such thing, but her level of anger has made it clear enough. Man, is she pissed at Ross right now. It's enough to piss _me_ off. _Poor Ross_, I can't stop thinking. _Poor, poor Ross._

The sad thing is: I'm not even _trying_ to see _Rachel's_ side of this. I mean, I _guess_ she has a point. He should've told her about the kiss. But, then again, is it really _that_ important of a piece of information to share? Well, I suppose he should've thought of Joey telling her; but, in his defense, he was probably still a little drunk and not thinking clearly. Plus, it's been a rough day for him, so his mind was probably a little preoccupied, especially considering the wonderful news he was hearing over the phone. Why would he be worrying about _Joey_ at the time?

Of course, I _was_ hanging out with _Ross_ all throughout the dance, so of course I'm going to see his side of the situation. It's not like I _really_ understand why they went on that break in the first place. Monica mentioned something brief about the reason, but I'm sure even _she_ doesn't know the full story. Maybe I should ask her what _exactly_ Ross told her. She may not know everything, but she sure as hell knows more than _me_.

In the middle of my train of thought, I suddenly realize that it's gotten pretty quiet on the other side of the door. I haven't heard either Ross or Rachel say a word in several minutes. I'm not sure if that's a good sign or a really terrible one. Most likely the latter.

That's when I notice everybody looking at me. It must be my turn. "Hold on a minute, guys," I say, walking toward the door. I press my ear up against it, just as I did oh-so-many hours ago. I can hear very faint speaking, though it's neither Ross nor Rachel's voice. An eerie chill runs up my spine. What in the _world_? Whose voice is that? I try to listen more carefully, and I finally manage to make out _one_ word in the middle of a stream of them.

". . . pizza . . ."

Oh, are you fucking _kidding_ me? I quickly put the pieces together. They ordered a pizza! We're in here, starving, and they ordered a pizza! That other voice must've been the delivery guy. I cannot _believe_ those two. They ordered a pizza when they know the six of us are in here, just as hungry as they are—that is, assuming they haven't eaten any of our food, too, throughout the night. Now, I'm mad at _both_ of them! I don't care who's right and who's wrong in this situation. No, not anymore. You see, this is what hunger does to a person—especially a teenager; we don't handle hunger very well, and we have stomachs the size of the solar system.

A sudden knock on the door makes me jump back in shock. The sound felt like an explosion in my ear—whatever _that _feels like. It's not like I would know.

The door swings open, showing a distraught Ross on the other side with a pizza box in his arms. I glare daggers at him.

"Where's Rachel?" I hear Monica ask, though I'm too focused on Ross to look in her direction.

"She left," Ross says, his voice cracking slightly. "She . . . We broke up." My expression immediately softens. "I . . . I figured you guys must be hungry, so . . ." He nodded his head down at the pizza box.

Monica takes the box from him, placing it on top of her dresser. She goes back over to Ross and hugs him. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Yeah," Ross says with a faraway look in his eyes. "Me too."

* * *

_Is anybody else crying right now?_

_No?_

_Yeah, neither was I._

_Um . . . anyway . . ._

_I . . . I'm sorry. I felt that needed to be said: I'm sorry. I feel truly evil right now. I feel like a horrible, despicable, terrible person. I'm sure Lobstersaremyfriends would agree._

_So, this concludes the first quarter of this story. That's right: I'm only a quarter of the way through. I have 100 chapters planned until this story is over—75 more as of now. We have a long way to go. Let's just hope I can update quicker than I have been. Speaking of which, I'm sorry this chapter took so long to write. I'm just really terrible at writing the emotional stuff. Luckily, the story gets more lighthearted in the next chapter. It actually stays on some pretty light subjects for quite a while, which is good. Those kind of chapters are really easy for me to write, so updates should be quick for a little while._

_Well, despite the depressing ending, I hope you guys enjoyed!_


	26. Back to School I

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_**R. Gatz: **__Are you a New School junkie? Addicted to New School? Do you need to go to New School rehab?  
I don't even know what I'm talking about. I've been awake for two days straight as of now, so my mind is kind of a mess at the moment._

_**Sweet Sugarrrush: **__"Ground Control to Major Tom" is something I often say to my friends when they zone out of a conversation. They always give me these strange looks 'cause they only listen to modern music like One Direction or whatever.  
As you can probably tell, I'm a huge fan of the song "Space Oddity".  
That's not really related to this story, though.  
Ugh. When is David going to become real? Real life, in comparison to this imaginary world of mine, is kind of sucky. I mean, in this world, I'm friends with the Friends! That's just plain awesome!_

_**The Irish Gleek: **__I keep wanting to add more Mondler to this story, but it's kind of hard to do, considering the story is from my perspective. It would be kind of creepy if Monica and Chandler were, I don't know, making out and stuff (or whatever it is that couples do), and my character was just standing there watching them and describing the scene in her head. I mean, I can be a creepy person, but I'm not __that__ creepy.  
Oh, man. Seventy-five more chapters. How am I going to do this? Don't get me wrong: I have stuff planned. I have a lot of plot planned out, though, and the actual progression of the plot is a very small part of the story. The majority of the chapters will just be random, mildly humorous situations that the characters get put into—kind of like how a television sitcom works. It's mostly silly, but there will occasionally be a serious moment where the plot progresses._

_**Lobstersaremyfriends: **__Ugh. 100 chapters. I obviously hate myself. I'm trying to punish myself for something—but what?  
I'm just kidding, of course. I love writing this story. It's just . . . 100 chapters is a bit much. I don't know. I might change that plan, but the story will probably be at least fifty chapters. We'll see how things go.  
Ah, Ross is great! I love how I made my character go bat-shit crazy with anger at the thought of Ross and Rachel eating pizza without her. It's definitely the kind of thing I would do, making assumptions like that and letting myself get furious.  
But, seriously, Ross is perfect. He reminds me of . . . a friend.  
A friend who has a girlfriend.  
A girlfriend who is not me.  
*Sob*  
It's weird, though, because I never realized how much this friend had in common with Ross until I read your fanfiction, __Enchanting Adoration__. Your story also made me realize that I have a small crush on Ross. It's strange that I didn't realize that before. My excuse is that Chandler got in the way._

_Just so you guys know, this chapter is mostly centered around my character and David. It's kind of weird having these kind of chapters in a fanfiction, but I already had this chapter all planned out a long time ago, so I'm including it._

_Also, parts of this chapter may not be very interesting to those not interested in science. I, however, love science, so I found this chapter very fun to write, especially since I got to do some research for it. It's weird, but I think I'm almost starting to miss school. Though, at the same time, I'm dreading the thought of going back to that place. Well, actually, I'm going to a new school next year, not that you guys would care. What am I doing talking about myself right now? I'm just going to get on with the chapter already._

_I hope you guys enjoy!_

* * *

"Why do mathematicians confuse Halloween and Christmas?" I ask.

David immediately smirks, and I just as quickly know that the joke is ruined. Of _course_ he's already heard this one. I should've seen it coming. The joke is pretty well known, after all. I, myself, have heard it about 100 times . . . if we're talking base three. That's right: I've heard it a grand total of _nine_ times.

Well, I've already gotten myself into this mess, and now I have to get myself out of it—and the only way I know how is to utter the punch line. May as well get it over with.

"Because 31 OCT equals 25 DEC," I mumble, no longer quite as excited to share this _hilarious_ joke with my boyfriend. Am I overreacting? Just a bit? Sorry, I can't help it. I just get so excited when it comes to telling jokes, and the disappointment of realizing that the joke has already been heard is overwhelming. I really shouldn't get my hopes up. I'm only bound to get disappointed.

Yet, in the middle of my gloomy thoughts, I hear the world's most precious sound: laughter. Oh, and it's not just precious; it's contagious, too. I start laughing, too, completely uncontrollably.

"Jus—just to make it clear," David says once the laughter ceases, "I _have_ already heard that joke."

"Yeah, right," I reply. "Then why'd you laugh?"

He scoffs jokingly at that. "Well, for one: That joke is absolutely hilarious, so of course I would still laugh. But the main reason I laughed was because I caught sight of the look of pure disappointment on your face—and I don't mean to sound mean or anything—but that gave me a good laugh."

I raise my eyebrows in interest at what he's just said. "What exactly do you mean by _that_?" I tease, shooting him a look that tells him to word his next sentence carefully. I'm only joking, but he tends to take me a little too seriously sometimes. I just _know_ this is going to be entertaining.

I almost break out laughing again when I see him grow instantly nervous. And when his adorable stutter reappears, I can't help but let out a small chuckle.

"I—I jus— I just mean that, um, it was— it was kind of funny," he says, avoiding eye-contact. "I didn't mean to—"

That's when I lose it.

I break out laughing, causing David to give me a mostly confused, partially insulted, and slightly concerned look.

"Come _on_, David!" I say, kind of amazed that he actually thought I was serious. "I'm just messing with you!"

He lets out a sigh of relief. "Don't _do_ that to me!" he says. "You made me so nervous. I was stuttering and _everything_."

This only makes me laugh harder. "Oh, man, why are we so weird?" I ask rhetorically, though David answers anyway.

"'Cause being normal is boring."

With those words, I sit straight up with a _"eureka"_ look on my face. "Those five words," I say, "are the wisest words I have ever heard." I keep up the serious demeanor for about another two seconds before bursting out laughing again. David joins in on the laughter until it dies down, and I say, "Okay, I guess it's about time we go back to work."

We're putting the finishing touches on our science project and reading over the work to make sure everything looks right. Tomorrow is the first day of the second quarter of the school year, and the project is due tomorrow. It's not quite a typical science project assignment that involves experiments and the scientific method. It's more of a research project. Our topic is on the effects of the body's hormones, which is a surprisingly interesting topic—especially for a couple of teenagers to learn about. At this age, we should know hormones better than an endocrinologist, considering all the hormones that run through a teenager's body. Of course, there are more hormones than just the ones that make adolescents so bratty to their parents. There's adrenaline, which causes the body to essentially gain the powers of Superman. Well, besides the whole flight and x-ray vision thing. And the heat vision. And the telescopic—

Sorry, I think I've started rambling. I'll stop now.

"I don't know what more there _is_ to work on," David replies. "We're pretty much done."

"Well, we can always proofread . . . again," I suggest. "You can never be too thorough."

He looks at me and narrows his eyes, as if he suspects something. Then, finally, he says, "You just want us to work on the project because you've run out of jokes, haven't you?"

"Um, _what_?" I reply with a nervous chuckle. "Of course not. I _never_ run out of jokes." I try to think of a joke to tell to prove my point, but none come to mind. Oh, great. He's right. I _have_ run out of jokes. "I just think that it would be good to make sure the project is perfect and ready for tomorrow."

"Okay," David says with a sly grin. "Whatever you say."

. . .

The next morning, David and I meet up outside my dorm and head to the cafeteria for breakfast. When we get there, Monica and Chandler are already there. Normally, we would eat with Joey, too, but ever since he declared himself no longer friends with Ross, I've found it harder and harder to be around him. Yes, I'm still taking Ross's side of the whole situation. I've barely even _spoken_ to Rachel since their breakup. And, of course, if we want to hang out with Ross, we can't go to Central Perk anymore since Rachel works there.

Luckily for me, I managed to escape this crazy group for a few days to have Thanksgiving with my family. Also, my family got to meet David, which was _interesting_, to say the least. Of course, David's stutter just _had_ to come back that day.

"Hey, guys," I greet Monica and Chandler as we take the seats across from them. David and I have already gotten our food.

They return the greeting. Then, Monica asks, "Hey, don't you guys have that project due today?"

"Yup," I reply confidently. "I'm pretty excited to present it, too. I have all the information memorized, so I won't be needing those index cards I made up earlier."

"You _memorized_ it?" David asks in shock. "Do you have some sort of photographic memory that you never told me about?"

"You mean an _eidetic_ memory?" I ask with a smirk, enjoying the fact that I know the official name. "No, I just happen to remember stuff—_words_, mostly—fairly well. But I can barely picture what my own _house_ looks like, and I was just there less than a week ago." Then, out of nowhere, I say, "Hey, I just remembered a joke!"

"Took you long enough," David teases.

"Wait," Chandler cuts in. "This isn't going to be some dorky math joke about _binary form_, is it?"

"There are 10 types of people in the world," David says, "Those who understand binary, and those who don't."

"Wait, but—," Chandler begins, but I interrupt him.

"There are 10 types of people in the world," I repeat. "Those who understand binary, those who don't, _and_ those who didn't expect this joke to be in base three." David laughs. Chandler doesn't.

"Yeah, I'm _definitely_ confused," he says.

"_Any_way," I say, "the joke I was going to tell you was one that you _all _would probably actually understand."

Monica and Chandler let out annoyed sighs. "Okay, fine," Monica gives in. Chandler gives her a look.

"A physicist, a biologist, and a mathematician are watching people entering and leaving the house across the street," I begin, ignoring Chandler's annoyance. "First, they see two people entering the house. Time passes. After a while, they notice three people leaving the house. The physicist says, 'The measurement wasn't accurate.' The biologist says, 'They must have reproduced.' The mathematician says, 'If one more person enters the house, then it will be empty.'"

Monica and Chandler appear to get the joke—because they both groan. On the other hand, David's eyes light up, and he says, "That reminds me of _another_ joke!" Monica and Chandler groan louder this time. David begins: "An astronomer, a physicist, and a mathematician are on a train in Scotland. The astronomer looks out the window, sees a black sheep standing in a field, and remarks, 'How odd. All the sheep in Scotland are black!' 'No, no, no!' says the physicist. 'Only _some_ Scottish sheep are black.' The mathematician rolls his eyes at his companions' muddled thinking and says, 'In Scotland, there is at least _one_ sheep, at least _one_ side of which _appears_ to be black from _here_, _some_ of the time.'"

. . .

Not long after do David and I have to head off to science class. All we're doing in class for the next few days is presenting our projects. We already turned our research in, but the presentations go in a random order. David and I sit at our table, waiting anxiously for the first two people to be called up to present their project.

The teacher picks up a box full of little white slips of paper. She mixes up the contents for a moment before reaching into the box and pulling out one of the paper slips.

"Chip Matthews," she calls out. "You and your partner are up."

The kid presumed to be Chip laughs from the back of the classroom. "Yeah, that's funny. Like _I_ would actually do that stupid project."

I roll my eyes and mutter, "Oh, brother."

The teacher does _not_ look happy. She crosses her arms and glares at the defiant student. "Chip, who is your partner?"

"I don't have one," he says. "Like I just told you, I already knew I wouldn't be doing this lame science project."

The teacher sighs before tossing the slip of paper with Chip's name on it in the trash. "Very well then," she says. She pulls out another slip of paper, looks at it for a moment, then calls out, "David Newman." A little unprepared to be the first to present, I take a calming breath. The teacher continues: "You and your partner are up." David and I stand, then walk up to the front of the classroom. The teacher walks off to her desk to find our research and—presumably—make sure what we say matches what we wrote. "You may begin," she says.

I take a deep breath before speaking. "Our project was on the effects of the various hormones in the human body." The teacher nods along with my words. "There are several different kinds of hormones in the body that all have different effects on a wide variety of things such as our feelings and emotions, or—for the physical side of the effects—our strength, hunger, and heart rate."

"Some examples of common hormones," David cuts in, glancing at his index cards, "include, but are not limited to: thyroxine, insulin, epinephrine—better known as adrenaline—amylin, enkephalin . . ." He continues to name bodily hormones for a short while until I stop him.

"I think you guys get the point: There are a _lot_ of hormones in our bodies. Especially in _our_ bodies due to the effects of adolescence," I say in a slightly less cheery voice, causing some awkward laughs to arise from the class. "As I was saying before, each hormone has a different effect on our bodies, and each is stimulated by something different. For example, epinephrine—or adrenaline—is released when in stressful or risky situations, or during a harmful event such as an attack or a threat to one's survival. This is known as the 'fight-or-flight response'." I continue to explain the effects of other hormones, and then David takes over to speak about why certain hormones cause emotions such as love and hatred. I then interrupt to get a very important point across. "By the way, I just have to make this one little thing clear: Despite what the myths may say, having red hair does _not_ make these hormones more abundant, nor does it make them more active." A few kids give me doubtful looks, and a few others laugh. Great. They don't even _believe_ me.

We continue our presentation until all the information from our research is said. The teacher thanks us, and we head back to our seats. We hear a few other presentations before the bell rings and we're dismissed from class.

. . .

"I think the presentation went pretty well," David says when we meet up for lunch, the first time I've seen him since science class ended this morning.

"Yeah, I guess," I mumble with a shrug.

David gives me a concerned look. "Is something wrong?"

"Yeah," I reply. "It's just . . . nobody seemed to believe me when I said that gingers don't have more active hormones."

"And that _bothers_ you?" David asks, clearly confused. "I—I'm sorry to say it, but you aren't exactly warding off that stereotype by being so depressed about it."

Rage flares in my eyes as I glare angrily at him. "And what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

His eyes widen in shock and fear, and in a trembling voice he says, "No, I—I didn't mean it like that. I—I just . . ."

My own eyes widen in realization, and then my expression softens. "My god, you're right: I _am_ a stereotype!"

Before David can reply, Monica and Chandler approach the table and take the seats across from us. We greet them, and they greet us back.

"Hey, so I was thinking," Chandler says without preamble, "I think we should go to Central Perk after school." When he's met by three uncertain stares, he continues: "Come _on_, guys! We've barely _spoken_ to Rachel this past week. I don't want us to wind up fazing her out of the group. Plus, we haven't had many opportunities to see Phoebe, either, with us avoiding Rachel and everything."

I let out a sigh. "You're right: we shouldn't exclude her from the group." Monica and David seem to agree, so I declare, "We'll head to the coffeehouse after school. Jeez, it feels like it's been _forever_ since we've last stepped foot in that place—and it was only, what, a _week_ ago?"

"Oddly enough," Monica adds, "it feels like it's been even longer since we've last seen Rachel."

. . .

Rachel seems pleasantly surprised to see us entering Central Perk after school. Smiling, she walks over to the four of us just as Phoebe finishes one of her crazy songs.

"Hey," Rachel greets us. We're soon also greeted by Phoebe as she approaches. We greet them back. "What are you guys doing here?" Rachel asks.

I reply, "What, we're not allowed to come to our favorite coffee place anymore?"

"No, of course you can!" Rachel says. "It's just . . . you know . . ." She doesn't have to explain further. Now that I'm actually face-to-face with Rachel, I feel kind of bad for taking Ross's side throughout all of this. "So," she says, changing the subject, "do any of you want anything to eat or drink?"

Monica, Chandler, and David order their drinks and pastries. I, on the other hand, reply, "No thank you. I'm fine."

Rachel looks confused. "You don't even want some coffee?"

I have to stop myself from grimacing. "No, that's all right. _Really_." I gave up that whole plan to acquire a taste for coffee a while ago. At some point, I realized that it just _wasn't_ going to happen. I hate coffee; I always have, and I always will.

"Oh," Rachel says. "You grew out of that coffee addiction?"

Now it's _my_ turn to be confused. "_What_ coffee addiction?" I ask. "I _hate_ coffee."

"What?" Rachel says. "Then why do you drink it so much? I just assumed you were addicted or something."

"Wait, let me get this straight," I say, a tad bit angrily. "You thought I had an _addiction_, and you didn't even _bring it up_?"

"Um, well . . . ," Rachel says quietly, looking at a loss for words. "It—it's _coffee_. I didn't think it would be a . . . _problem_."

"Are you _kidding_?" I ask. "Do you have any idea how bad a caffeine addiction can _get_?" My voice then takes on a lecturing tone, as if I'm her teacher, trying to teach her about the effects of caffeine. "It can cause anxiety, increased blood pressure, irritability, restlessness, delirium, headache, insomnia . . . Overdose can cause the ears to ring and the eyes to see flashes that aren't really there and—"

"What _are_ you? _Wikipedia_?" she asks.

Suddenly realizing what I was doing, my face reddens. "Sorry," I say. "I'm just passionate about . . . knowing stuff."

"Yeah, ya think?" she teases.

"Anyway," I say, "I'd rather not have any coffee today, thank you."

"O-_kay_," Rachel replies slowly, giving me a concerned look before walking off. I wonder what she's concerned about. My sanity? Possibly.

It occurs to me in that moment how much I've missed hanging out here with Waitress Girl—and Pheebs. I realize that it's been quite a while since our last sleepover, now that I think about it. We haven't had any reason for a sleepover since Phoebe's been staying with Rachel, but I see no reason the four of us girls can't hang out—just for fun.

I wait for Rachel to return with everybody's food and drinks. I glance at Monica before I speak, hoping she won't oppose to the idea I have on my mind. "Hey, how 'bout the four of us"—I motion to Monica, Phoebe, Rachel, and myself—"have a sleepover? We haven't hung out like that in a long time."

I get shrugs and thoughtful looks in reply before I receive any actual words; yet, when words are spoken, they're all positive replies, which I'm grateful for.

"Sure."

"Why not?"

"Sounds fun."

"Great!" I say happily. "So, how about we meet up at our dorm at seven-ish?"

"Wait," Rachel cuts in before anyone can agree to the plan. "Let's go to _my_ house for this sleepover. We _always_ go to your dorm. We should change it up a bit for once."

"Okay, sure," I reply. "If that's what you want." Monica and Phoebe seem to agree as well. That's when I notice Chandler and David both sitting awkwardly off to the side, looking unsure of whether to engage in a conversation of their own or if that would be too weird. I can't help but let out a small chuckle. Monica and I sure got the adorable, socially awkward boys. It's almost kind of funny how David and Chandler have known each other for quite a while now, though they aren't really _friends_ with each other. They just hang out together—_every_ day.

"So, seven-ish?" Rachel asks, snapping me back from my thoughts.

"Sounds like a plan to me," I say. Mon and Pheebs verbalize their agreements. I stand up and explain: "I think I'm gonna head back to the dorm now. Apparently, the teachers are already getting back into the habit of assigning homework." I groan, though I know that the others know I don't mind homework at all. Well, at least, that's what they _think_. Honestly, I mind it just a _little_. After all, it's keeping me away from my friends!

As I head out of Central Perk and back to my dorm, I can already feel myself anticipating this sleepover tonight.

* * *

_Oh, man. This chapter took _forever_ for me to write. I'm so sorry about that, especially considering how little actually _happened _in this chapter. I think the next chapter will be more exciting. I love writing the sleepover scenes._

_I hope you guys enjoyed!_


	27. Yet Another Sleepover

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_**Mondlercrazy0508: **__I really can't answer your questions. I don't like to give spoilers, so you'll just have to wait and see for yourself.  
Again, I'm sorry for the slow updates lately. I would say that it's going to get better from here, but I would be lying. I go back to school tomorrow, and that'll leave me much less time to work on this story._

_**R. Gatz:**__ Yeah, you're definitely addicted. I'm not sure whether I should cut you off from your addiction or just keep feeding you more. I can't imagine that an addiction to a story could be so unhealthy, so I guess I'll just try to update faster.  
I'm glad to see you're enjoying the story._

_**Sweet Sugarrrush: **__Yeah, "Space Oddity" is just plain awesome! :D  
I love how I managed to fit—what?—five math jokes into the last chapter. The funny part of it is the fact that I found all five of those jokes on Wikipedia, of all places. Well, actually, the first joke was one that I've known for a while. And, like I said, I've heard it nine times already.  
If everything goes according to plan, this sleepover should be a very funny one, and it should lead to an equally funny chapter twenty-eight!_

_**Lobstersaremyfriends: **__Nerds unite! High pi! (A high pi is like a high five, except you only hold up 3.14 fingers.)  
I love your joke. XD  
It reminds me of a couple inside jokes, which you'll barely understand, but I'll share them with you anyway for no reason at all:  
"A librarian walks into a bar, and the bartender says, 'Shh.'"  
. . . and . . .  
"Ninety-nine socks walk into a bar, and the bartender says, 'Where's the other one?'  
Come on, guys! Because it's an odd number, so there must be another one. Get it? It's a joke, guys. You're supposed to laugh. Laugh, dammit!"  
You gotta love crappy comedians. XD_

_By the way, guys, we've finally made it to chapter twenty-seven! Isn't that great?  
I know what you're thinking: "What's so special about the number twenty-seven?"  
Well, you ignorant fools (kidding, of course), twenty-seven is Weird Al's favorite number, which has caused it to become one of my favorites as well, along with four, eight, fifteen, sixteen, twenty-three, forty-two, and one hundred and eight._

_I don't really know why I'm talking about numbers right now, though. I mean, I love numbers, but I have a chapter to write, so I'll get on with it._

_I hope you guys enjoy!_

* * *

Once I finish my homework, I check the clock on my dresser. It's nearing six, so I still have some time before I have to leave. I decide to spend the next forty-five minutes reading. At some point during that time, Monica enters the dorm and begins to get ready. I soon after put the book away and do the same. At around _6:45_, we leave.

We hail a taxi, and Monica gives the driver the address of the Green residence. About ten minutes later, we arrive outside a rather large home. We step out of the taxi once Monica has paid the driver. It occurs to me that I should probably try to find a job sometime soon. I have some money from savings, but it's not going to last forever—and I can't keep letting my friends pay for stuff for me. Monica and I walk up to the front door of the house and knock. A moment later, Rachel answers the door.

"Hey," she greets us. "Come on in." This isn't my first time in Rachel and Phoebe's home, but the sheer _size_ of this house still manages to amaze me. I used to live in a fairly big house, but it wasn't nearly as enormous as _this_ home. Monica and I step inside, and Rachel leads us into the kitchen where Phoebe is sitting at the kitchen table, strumming on her guitar.

"Hey, Pheebs," I call to her. "Whatcha doin'?"

She looks up at us and smiles. "I'm trying to write a new song. Hey, do you happen to know a word that rhymes with 'hermaphrodite'?"

I frown in confusion. "Can't say that I do. Sorry, Pheebs."

She looks thoughtful for a moment before asking, "What about 'hydroxide'?"

I shake my head. "What exactly is this song _about_, anyway?"

"I'm not really sure," Phoebe replies.

. . .

"What if there was a universe," Phoebe asks, "where people _don't_ eat animals?"

"Or where _animals_ eat _people_?" I suggest.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Phoebe says. "That could never happen. Animals are nice. People are mean. There's no changing that."

"Pheebs, we're talking about _alternate_ universes," I explain. "_Anything_ can happen." It was this crazy idea I had: to discuss what kinds of alternate universes could exist outside of our own. I realized a little while ago how much this conversation sounds like stoner talk, but it's still fun nonetheless.

"Okay, I've got one," Monica says. "What if there was a universe where vegetables made people fat, and chocolate made them skinnier?"

I frown. "Great. Now you've made me hungry."

"Does anyone want any snacks?" Rachel asks. We all reply with the various things we want, and Rachel takes our orders as if we're ordering coffee in Central Perk. It gives me a laugh, considering how much Rachel hates that job. Surprisingly, she actually manages to bring us the food we ordered. I'm impressed.

Once we're all settled back on the couch, I continue the discussion. "What if there was a universe where the three of you were characters on a TV show—along with Chandler, Joey, and Ross—and I just _watched_ you guys, living your lives?" There's a long pause, and Monica and Rachel both look a bit spooked by what I've just said.

Finally, Monica says in a low whisper, "That's creepy."

"Wait," Rachel cuts in, looking confused about something. "Where's _David_ in this?"

In an ominous voice, I reply, "There is no David. Not in _this_ universe."

Monica's eyes widen. "Wait, did you just kill off your own boyfriend?"

"No," I reply. "David never even existed in the first place."

"Okay, you're really starting to creep me out," Rachel says, clearly disturbed by what I'm saying.

"How," I ask, "if I don't even _know_ you? You're just a character on a screen—remember?"

Monica and Rachel both look disturbed and scared beyond belief. Phoebe, however . . .

"This sounds _cool_!" she says excitedly.

"Maybe," Monica says, "there's a universe that doesn't have weird conspiracy theories, and we can all live in peace."

I scoff and cross my arms. "Yeah, _right_. Like _that_ could happen."

. . .

A knock on the door interrupts our current conversation about the secret double lives of marshmallows. Yes, we were _actually_ having a conversation about that. It was Phoebe's idea to talk about marshmallows, but _I_ was the one to come up with the "secret double lives" part. Maybe we really _are_ on drugs. Or _I_ am, anyway.

Rachel gets up to go answer the door, and the rest of us follow. She opens the door, and on the other side stands an older man. Rachel eyes him angrily and asks, "What do you _want_, Mr. Heckles?"

"Quiet, you're disturbing my iguana," he says dully. Hey, maybe _he's_ high!

"You don't _have_ an iguana," Rachel replies, narrowing her eyes at him.

"I _could_ have an iguana," Mr. Heckles says.

"Mr. Heckles," Rachel says, exasperated, "this is _ridiculous_. There's no way you could _possibly_ hear us from all the way next door!"

There's a long pause. Finally, Mr. Heckles says, "My iguana doesn't like you." With those five strange words, he turns on his heel and walks away. Rachel slams the door after him. She then turns to the rest of us and forces a smile onto her face.

"So, what do you guys wanna do now?"

"Who _was_ that guy?" I ask, ignoring her question.

"Just our weirdo neighbor," Rachel replies. "He's always complaining about the noise, even at three in the morning when we're all _asleep_." She lets out an annoyed sigh, plasters that smile back on her face, and again asks, "What does everybody feel like doing?"

A sudden crazy idea comes to mind. I don't understand why I would even _consider_ such a thing, but I nonetheless suggest, "How 'bout we play _Truth or Dare_?"

To my surprise, Rachel laughs. "Yeah, funny. But _seriously_, what do you wanna do?"

"I'm serious," I say. "It's been long enough. I'm _way_ over that whole 'daring me to ask out Joey' thing. I think we should give the game another go."

Monica and Phoebe both look doubtful, though Rachel replies, "Fine. We can _try_ it—but if any of us _really_ don't want to do what we're dared to do, we don't have to do it. Okay?"

"Sounds like a plan," I say. Monica and Phoebe seem to agree.

Five minutes later, we're in the middle of a very fun game of _Truth or Dare_. I guess this _was_ a good idea. It doesn't sound quite so crazy anymore. It's now Rachel's turn, and she asks Phoebe to pick either Truth or Dare.

"Truth," she says. "I have nothing to hide."

Rachel smirks before asking, "What is your _honest_ opinion on your own musical ability?"

Phoebe grins when she replies. "Well, I don't mean to brag, but I think I'm pretty good, you know? Like, I mean, I can _sing_; I can play _guitar_; there isn't _anything_ I can't do!"

I have to suppress a laugh.

Phoebe then turns to me and asks, "Truth or Dare?"

I think about it for a moment before replying, "Dare."

"Well, while we're on the subject of music," she says, "I dare you to speak only in rhyme for the entire day tomorrow."

Phoebe is immediately met by opposition from Rachel and Monica. "That's crazy," Monica says. "An _entire _day?"

"Yeah, Mon's right," Rachel says. "You can't make her do that. We have _school_ tomorrow!"

"Um, guys," I say, not liking having these people talk about me like I'm not even here. "I . . . I actually _like_ the idea. I think it'll be fun."

Rachel and Monica both stare at me, surprised, for a while before they say in unison, "Oh."

I can't help but let out a small chuckle. "Phoebe, I happily accept your dare." Then, I smirk. "Hey, this can't be _too_ difficult. It's just rhyming. It's not like I have to speak in _iambic pentameter_." When I'm met by three blank stares, I say, "And I think I just lost you guys. Ah, forget it. It wasn't that funny, anyway."

* * *

_Ugh. Such a short chapter. But it was funny . . . right?_

_Right?_

_Anyway, I mentioned before that I go back to school tomorrow, so just be aware that updates will begin to slow from here—as if they haven't been slow enough already._

_Despite the plotlessness of the chapter and the fact that it was so short, I hope you guys enjoyed!_


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